


a life more ordinary

by RecoveringTheSatellites



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Driver!Killian, F/M, Hitchhiker!Emma, Slow Burn, a little angst and a lot of connection and some moments of tenderness in between, and a massive happy end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-01-13 07:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: Off the side of a highway, driving towards a new life, Killian picks up a hitchhiker.And so much more than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

He finds her by the side of the road, right outside of Tallahassee.

She's just sitting there, on top of a duffle bag, with a cardboard sign next to her that says only 'NORTH'. She looks up as he pulls over and comes to a stop a few feet from where she's sitting, dust swirling and gravel spitting in his wake. She gets up slowly, picks up her duffle and the sign slowly, walks over to the cab of his pickup slowly. He lowers the window, and she looks him over.

„Need a ride?“ Well, that may have been a stupid question. She is obviously looking for a ride. North.

She smirks and nods. And then grows very serious again, looking at him with narrowed eyes. Narrowed, very, very green eyes.

„Yes, I need a ride,“ she says. It sounds like she's rolling her eyes inside each word.

„You realize this road leads east.“

She huffs. „Yes. I do. But it also leads to I-95. Which goes north.“

She's right. It does. As a matter of fact, it's why he is on this particular road. Because he is going to I-95.

„I am actually headed that way,“ he says. „So I guess I can offer you that ride.“

„Hmmmmmm,“ she hums to herself, still looking at him. „How do I know you're not going to chop me into a million pieces and sprinkle me on the side of the road?“

He almost laughs. What a way to ask for a favor. „Well, I guess you don't,“ he says, and can feel himself grinning. „But I have no intention of harming you.“

Her eyes narrow more. She takes her time scanning his face. He's about to tell her to forget the whole thing when her face relaxes and she smiles at him. „You'll do,“ she says, and opens the door, „thank you.“

„You can throw your duffle in the back.“

„If it's all the same to you,“ she says, getting in and putting her bag between her legs, „I'd rather keep it here with me.“

„Suit yourself,“ he says and pulls back onto the road.

She buckles her seatbelt and then leans back. One hand remains on her bag at all times.

 

„So, where are you headed?“

„North,“ she answers.

„Yes, I saw your sign. But 'north' is quite unspecific. Anywhere north in particular?“

„As far as I can, I guess.“ Her voice is quiet. „Where are you going?“

„Maine,“ he says, to his own surprise. He had been about to tell her Georgia. South Carolina at most.

She smiles again; and he has to admit that she has a very nice smile. When it's not weighed down by suspicion. „Maine.“ She repeats, her voice soft and thoughtful. „Do you think you could take me all the way there? Or at least as far as you're willing to put up with me?“

 

It's an odd request. The fact that she does not have a clear destination. The fact that she seems to be fine with him just dumping her by the side of the road whenever he wants to continue on alone. The whole thing is odd, and it doesn't sit well with him. He decides to decline. Offer to drop her in Jacksonville, which will at least get her to the interstate. Or maybe Savannah. Definitely no further than Charleston.

What comes out of his mouth instead is, „sure.“ And then he swallows wrong and spends close to a minute choking and coughing.

She pats his back a few times, and then snatches her hand back suddenly. Fast. „Are you OK?“ The question is almost reluctant.

No. He breathes out slowly and carefully. No, he is not OK. He just offered to take a perfect stranger over a thousand miles. He's crazy, ThankYouVeryMuch. Insane. No matter how nice her smile and how green her eyes, this is just _nuts_.

„Fine,“ he replies, and realizes that his mind has apparently gone running off while he wasn't looking. „My name is Killian.“

„Emma,“ she says, and smiles again. It _is_ a nice smile. Not enough to lose his marbles over, but nice.

 

 

„I have to ask,“ he says a few minutes later, watching her still clutching her bag. „Are you running from something?“

Tension snaps her entire body rigid, and her brows pull together. „Why do you need to know?“

Definitely suspicious. More than suspicious. Hostile.

„I'm not asking for your life story,“ he's quick to assure. „I just want to know whether or not to expect police sirens in my rearview any time soon.“

She laughs. It's thin and high-pitched and nervous, but it softens the daggers she's been looking at him. „No,“ she says quietly, „nothing like that, don't worry.“

„But you are running from something.“ Why can he not shut up?

To his surprise she sighs, and relaxes a fraction. „I prefer to think of it as running towards something.“ She shifts the bag between her legs, then lets go and rolls her shoulders. „Towards something better.“ Her voice is almost a whisper.

He doesn't push further.  
He knows the feeling.

 

 

„Are you Captain Hook?“

He laughs. „Yup.“

It's three hours and endless games of 20 questions later. And he's having fun, driving up the infinite monotony of I-95. He looks down at the tank needle.

„We'll have to go get gas soon,“ he says. „Are you hungry?“

She squirms. „I'll just get some snacks wherever you stop.“

He can tell she is hungry. She just doesn't want to admit it.

When he pulls over at the next truck stop, he points at the diner. „Let's at least get a cup of coffee.“

She shrugs and her stomach rumbles. She rolls her eyes. „Perfect timing,“ she mumbles, and then bites her lip. „Fine. I'll have a cup of coffee.“

When they sit down, she refuses to look at the menu, even though her eyes go wide when a waitress carries plates heaped with food past their table.

„The grilled cheese is cheap,“ he says gently, and her eyes lower immediately, stare at her own clasped hands atop the table.

„Coffee will do,“ she says quietly.

„When's the last time you ate?“ He can't help himself.

Her eyes close. Her mouth sets into a thin line. „I'll be fine.“

„That's not what I asked.“

When she looks up at him, it's a mixture of angry and pleading. „Please don't.“ It's a whisper and a hiss. „Please, just leave it, OK?“

 

The waitress arrives and she orders decaf. He orders the grilled cheese with extra fries and earns himself a very suspicious look. The suspicious look becomes positively angry when he shoves his plate over to her and announces that he cannot possibly eat another french fry, and asks whether she'd care to finish them for him.

„Don't think I don't know what you're doing,“ she says and her green eyes harden like flint. They sit staring at each other for several long moments, and then her stomach rumbles again.

„Gods _dammit_.“ She rolls her eyes at him and her steely glare softens back to normal. „Fine. You win.“

She takes the first bite slowly, carefully, and then devours the rest in nothing flat.

So not just hungry. Starving.

When the waitress brings their check, she hands him five dollars.

„Let me get you some change. Your coffee was only two bucks.“

„No,“ she says, and it sounds firm, intractable. „The rest is for the fries. I don't like to owe anyone.“

He stares at her, but her mouth is set, and so are her shoulders. This is not a negotiation.

„Alright,“ he concedes. „Fair enough.“

They drive the next two hours in silence.

 

 

When the third hour breaks, he can't take it anymore.

„I'm sorry,“ he says, and surprises himself by how much he means it. „I didn't mean to--- I'm sorry.“

She sighs and turns to face him. „No,“ she says and it sounds stiff and reluctant. But also honest. „I'm the one who should say sorry.“ She takes a deep breath. „You were just trying to be nice, and I stomped all over you.“

He can feel how much struggle lies inside this admission. „It's alright.“ He tries to make his voice calm and quiet. „You were just trying to maintain a balance.“

She's biting her lip. Hard. Then she nods. „I guess I was. I don't like it when people have power over me.“

„It was just a few french fries.“

She exhales and her entire frame slumps. „I know. I'm really sorry. It was kind of you, you know.“

He smiles at her. She might be prickly and defensive, but she is not boring. And he doesn't regret picking her up one bit.

„So, I guess this is as good a time as any to point out that we'll have to stop for the night. Soon.“ She squirms again, but he goes on. „Since you didn't want to invest in food, I'm assuming you don't want to pay for a motel bed?“

She shrugs. „I was kind of hoping you could let me sleep in here,“ she mumbles. „I promise not to hotwire your truck. Mostly because I don't know how to drive.“

He can feel his eyes widen in surprise. „You can't drive?“

„I never learned,“ she says softly, and turns to stare out the window.

„How on earth is that possible?“

Her spine stiffens. „I grew up in the system,“ she answers, her voice cold and dispassionate. „Let's just leave it at that.“

Talking to her is like taking a stroll in a field of land mines.

„I didn't mean to pry.“

Her shoulders slump again. „I didn't mean to snap.“ It's so quiet, he almost doesn't hear it. Almost.

 

Killian pulls off the highway at the next small town exit, and finds the motel with the cheapest-looking rate. Emma stays in the cab while he goes and gets a room, and remains stubbornly silent as he drives down the row of doors to park in front of one marked #7.

He cuts the engine and they sit in silence.

„Would you like to come in and use the shower?“ He finally says.

She looks at him, desire and guilt warring on her face. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. In the end, she just nods.

„Come on then.“ He exits the truck, gets his bag from behind his seat. She follows him slowly, clutching her duffle. „It's just water,“ he says as he opens the door. „You won't owe me a thing.“

 

When they enter she stops dead in the center of the room. He throws his bag on the bed and points to the bathroom. „All yours.“

„Are you sure you don't want to go first?“ Her voice is a whisper. „I... I'm going to be in there a while.“

„Have at it,“ he says and turns on the TV. „Take all the time you need.“

She walks over to the bathroom, still clutching her duffle, closes the door and he hears the lock turn. A minute later water starts running.

He switches the TV to the Weather Channel and digs in his bag for his bottle of rum. Toeing off his shoes he sits down on the couch and takes a long sip. And then another.

And then realizes, he is sitting on a couch.

On a _couch_.

 

She takes almost half an hour in the bathroom, and when she exits she lets out a cloud of steam. She has switched her jeans for leggings and her flannel for a Henley and a towel is wrapped around her head.

„I only used this one,“ she says, pointing at her head, „I left all the other towels for you.“ She puts down her duffle and starts to rub her hair dry.

„Emma,“ he says, getting up slowly. „You can sleep on the couch.“ He knows better than to offer the bed.

She looks at him like a deer caught in headlights.

„The way I see it, the room came with a couch. I didn't pay extra for it. So whether you use the couch or the cab of my truck makes no difference, does it?“

She blinks at him, slowly.

„Here are the keys to the truck,“ he says, as gently as he can, and puts his keys on the coffee table. „There's a blanket behind the seat. You can sleep out there, or you can sleep in here. I leave it up to you.“

Then he picks up his bag and goes to take a shower.

When he comes back out, she is wrapped in his blanket, curled up on the couch. Fast asleep.

 

 

 

 _Emma_. She hears a voice call her name from far away. _Emma. Wake up!_

She bolts upright, all her senses snapping to attention. She looks around and can't place where she is. This is not the cot at the shelter.

„Emma.“ The voice is soft and soothing. A hand wraps gently around her wrist. „Emma, breathe.“

Her eyes wander up an arm to the owner of the voice. A face looks at her kindly, with worried blue eyes.

Killian. That's his name. Puzzle pieces start coming together.

 

The hitched ride. The motel. The couch. Right.

 

His hand starts rubbing her arm, and his voice remains calm. „Keep breathing. You're OK now.“

It's dark, only the small lamp on his nightstand is lit. She blinks, looks at him kneeling beside her, his hair sticking up and his sleep clothes rumpled. „What happened?“ Her voice is scratchy and sore.

„You screamed, love,“ he says. „In your sleep, you screamed. Damn near gave me a heart attack.“

„I'm so sorry,“ she whispers. Her throat feels raw. Humiliation starts to burn hot down her veins. „Gods, I'm so sorry.“ She throws back the blanket. „I'll go sleep in your truck.“

„Emma, wait,“ he holds on to her arm, gentle, but firm. „You don't have to leave.“

„Yes, I do. I can't keep you awake on top of everything else.“

„On top of what else?“ His eyes are still worried. And kind, too kind. „You haven't done anything wrong.“

„I ate your french fries. I slept on your couch. I accepted a ride for hundreds of miles.“

He smiles at her. „I was going to Maine with or without you. The couch was included in the room. And you paid for the fries. I thought we'd established that you owe me nothing.“ His eyes grow serious. „Are you alright, love?“

 

She wants to laugh out loud, because it's ridiculous. She's so fucking far from alright, it's funny. But she does not want him to get cut on the shards that are the shambles of her life. Not when he's been nothing but nice to her.

So she nods. „I'm fine,“ she says. And then immediately invalidates her answer by pressing a hand to her mouth and running into the bathroom to throw up.

 

He follows her in, holds her hair back as the waves of nausea roll over her. When she finally leans back, breathless and spent, he hands her a wet towel and a glass of water. Emma wills her hands not to tremble as she takes both, and fails. She nearly spills the water on its way to her mouth. She rinses and spits and wipes her lips.

„I'm so sorry,“ she repeats. She has to close her eyes and lean back against the tub. Try and catch her breath.

„Stop saying you're sorry,“ he says, and it sounds firm, but not angry. „It's not your fault that your stomach's upset.“

At that she does laugh. Shrill and thin and high-pitched and helpless. She can her her voice, can hear the barely contained hysteria inside it, and she's powerless to stop it. She laughs until tears start to leak from her eyes.

It takes her forever to regain control.

 

When she finally does, and wipes her face with the cuffs of her Henley, his face is still worried and his eyes wide and dark. He's taken a seat on the floor opposite her and his eyes roam her face, searching for an explanation. One that doesn't include her being a mental patient.

Well, she can put his mind at ease in that respect.

„Killian, I'm sorry,“ she repeats, and when he starts to protest, she cuts him off. „No, you don't understand. I _am_ sorry. I'm not trying to be mean to you. I'm trying not to drag you into the mess that is my life.“ She takes a deep breath. „I'm... I'm----“ she can't bring herself to say it. „I don't have an upset stomach,“ she says instead. „I have morning sickness. Apparently in the middle of the night.“

 

She watches his face as the statement sinks in, as understanding starts to hit him.

 

„You're--- you're pregnant?“ He whispers.

She nods. „It appears that I am.“ She has to ask, now. „Will you still take me with you? I promise to stay in your cab from now on.“

„Don't be ridiculous.“ His voice sounds even, and sure. „Of course I'll still take you. But you're not sleeping in the cab.“

She wants to protest, but instead she leans forward and throws up again. It's mostly dry heaves by now. She feels him take the towel from her hand, hears him wet it again. When she comes back up, there's a fresh glass of water.

„Thank you,“ she says, her voice back to scratchy. „Have I mentioned I'm sorry?“

He smiles at her. He should not be this nice. „You have mentioned it. And you can stop any time now.“

She rinses and spits and wipes her mouth, again. „Yeah, well, I am. For being so much more trouble than you bargained for.“

„Stop it.“ His hand is back on her arm, rubbing slowly up and down. His voice is so soft, his eyes warm, affectionate. „It's no trouble at all.“

She knows it's a lie, but she can't bring herself to say so. She feels light-headed and closes her eyes.

„Come on,“ she hears him say, „let's get you back to bed.“ His arms slide around her, and a moment later she's standing. „Can you walk?“

„Of course I can walk,“ she bristles and then bites her tongue. „Sorry. I didn't mean to snap.“

He grins at her. „You're still apologizing.“

She can't help but smile. „Yeah, well, you're still being too nice to me.“

 

He helps her back to the couch, hands her the blanket and sits down beside her. When he looks at her, his eyes are serious. „Don't take this the wrong way, love,“ he starts, with some hesitation. „But are you quite sure you know what you're doing?“

She clamps down on the temptation to say something scathing and hurtful. He _is_ being too nice, and it's fucking with her mental equilibrium. Hard.

It takes her several deep breaths to even back out.

„I was at a shelter in Tallahassee,“ she finally says when she has her voice back under control. „And I figure whatever it is that I find up north, it's bound to be better than that. It just has to be.“

He is silent for a very long time. Then he nods, still serious. „Let's go back to sleep,“ he finally says. „We have hundreds of miles left to figure it out.“ He looks at her in resignation. „I don't suppose you'll let me offer you the bed?“

She has to smile. The whole situation is just too ludicrous. And what does he mean, _they_ will figure it out? _He_ doesn't have to figure one fucking thing. But she's too tired to argue. Except for the question of the bed; on that she'll stand firm.

„Not on your life,“ she answers, still smiling.

„I thought so.“ He nods, and slowly gets up. „In that case, good night. And we'll talk in the morning.“

 

There are so many things she wants to reply to that, but none of them are kind. And none of them he deserves. So she keeps her mouth shut, and puts her head on the pillow, and a few moments later she is fast asleep.

 

 

 

The next morning he pulls into the parking lot of a diner.

She looks at him with sullen determination, but he has made up his mind, and he'll have none of that, ThankYou. He grins at her instead, lets his eyebrows dance, and dares her to object. „We're having breakfast, whether you want to or not.“

She bites her lip and pulls out a wallet. He shakes his head. „Put it back, love.“ He can feel her starting to bristle, but he'll show her that he can be stubborn, too. „Save your money.“ It's an effort to keep his voice neutral. „You will need it later. And I can afford to buy you breakfast.“

If she bites her lip any harder, she'll be drawing blood. He reaches up, lets his thumb run across her chin. „Stop that. You'll only hurt yourself.“

She laughs in response, hard and joyless. She mumbles something too quiet to hear, but it sounds a lot like _StoryOfMyLife_. She looks pale and churlish and her collar bones stick out way too far.

„You're too thin and you know it.“ He holds on to her chin, forces her to look at him. „Now let me buy you some goddamn breakfast.“

She twist her chin back out of his grasp, but he sees a smile play around the corners of her mouth.

It's a start.

 

 

 

 

After he threatens to order one of everything on the menu, she orders waffles. With whipped cream. And orange juice. And a bowl of fresh fruit. He can't help but smile. She looks like she'd rather have ordered a whole bottle of poison.

„So how come you're going all the way up to Maine?“ She finally asks, and he can't pass up this moment. This opportunity.

He leans forward and at the last moment stops himself from taking her hand. „Emma,“ he says, and again it's an effort to keep his voice neutral. „I'm happy to tell you my story; answer every question you ask. But I want something in return.“

Her eyes widen in fear, and he wants to slap himself.

„Nothing bad, I promise. I promise you that.“

The tension in her shoulders does not lessen, not at all. He closes his eyes and tries again. „Emma,“ he says, as gently as he can, „please don't be afraid. I don't want to hurt you. I just want some answers. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, I promise. And I want nothing else from you. That I really, _really_ promise.“

He opens his eyes, almost afraid to look. Her expression is thoughtful, her eyes far away. He sighs in relief. He has not screwed this up. At least not yet. There is something about her that pulls at something inside him, and he doesn't know what. It is not pity. Because she is not helpless. Maybe it's how hard she fights not to be. To remain in control.

„Three questions,“ she says.

„What?“ He's completely lost his train of thought.

„I'll give you three questions. And I'll answer them honestly. But that's all you get.“

„A day,“ he hears himself say. „Three questions a day.“

She rolls her eyes and huffs. „Fine,“ she says. „You drive a hard bargain. Now tell me why you're going to Maine.“

 

„I was in the Navy,“ he starts to explain. „And when my last tour ended, my brother called me, and offered me a job in a small town in Maine. Not far from Portland, where he lives with his wife. And the nephew I haven't met, yet.“

The waitress comes and puts plates and bowls before them. Emma's eyes grow wide as she looks at her waffles. „Dig in,“ he says, and she picks up her fork. For a few long moments she's busy eating, but then she takes a sip of her juice and looks up expectantly.

„You've never met your nephew?“

„I was in the Bering Sea when he was born. I haven't had any leave for a while.“ He sighs. „Although now that I've been discharged, I have all the leave I want. And a job. As the harbor master of a tourist port.“

„You don't sound very happy about it.“

There is something in her voice that demands an honest reply. „I've been at sea most of my adult life. I don't know how well I will do on dry land.“

When he looks at her, her eyes are clear, and her expression is open. „Fear of the unknown,“ she says quietly. „I do get that.“

He nods, chagrined. She would know. Better than he does. „I'm sorry,“ he says. „I didn't mean to make light of your sit----“

„I thought we agreed, no more apologizing,“ she cuts him off, smiling. And what a smile it is. „We're not comparing hard luck stories. You're just telling me a little about your life.“

„I know,“ he says, shaking his head. „I'm so---“

She raises an eyebrow and he stops himself in the nick of time.

„Not so easy to do once you get going, is it?“ She's still smiling at him, and takes a bite of her waffle. A dollop of whipped cream gets stuck on her nose and he wipes it off before he can stop himself.

It's not until he has licked it off his finger that he notices her staring.  
Realizes what he has done.

But instead of shutting down, she leans forward and grabs his hand. „I'll have you know that whipped cream is my favorite thing in the whole damn world,“ she smirks. „And you do not get to steal it. Some day, somehow, you'll pay for that.“

He can't answer. There is no blood left in his brain.

 

„So you packed up your life and now you're off to see the Wizard?“ She asks after he's been silent for more than a minute. „Trying to find the end of your yellow brick road?“

He shakes the cobwebs from his brain and comes back to the present. „I suppose so,“ he answers, and gods, his voice is full of gravel. He clears his throat and points to the back of his truck. „Under that tarp is everything I own. We'll see how far it gets me.“

She takes a long look. „It's not very much.“

„Well, if you do duty on a ship, the cabins tend to be furnished.“ He smiles. „You know, up to a point. They come with a metal bunk bed and a mattress. Last time I got promoted I also got a desk.“

„A whole desk, all to yourself?“

„Didn't know you were in the company of someone so important, did you?“

„I had no idea. Were you an Admiral? Or a Commander in Chief?“

„I'll have you know, I made it up to Lieutenant.“

„Then I take it all back. That's not exactly status. I don't know if you deserved a desk.“

She's smiling an absolutely brilliant smile, and he feels ridiculously happy at their easy banter.

„I suppose at some point I will have to go and buy some actual furniture. Life on dry land is so complicated.“

She's still smiling, but her voice goes quiet. „It can be,“ she says. „But you're going to be fine.“

It sounds so sincere, he can't stop himself from asking. „Are you sure about that?“

She nods, in earnest. „Yes. I'm sure. I get these--- I don't know, feelings, I guess. About things like that. And I'm sure that you'll be alright.“ 

It doesn't mean anything, this vague vote of confidence from a near stranger, but he latches on to it as if it were a last ray of hope. „Thank you,“ he says, surprised at how _much_ he means it.

„You're welcome,“ she grins, and then goes slightly green.

„You alright love?“ He looks for the nearest bathroom. „Do you need to throw up?“

She closes her eyes, breathes a few measured breaths. „No, I'm good,“ she says, and then keeps on eating.

He just shakes his head and asks for the check.

 

 

A mile down the freeway her hand is still on her duffle.

„I take it everything you own is in there?“

She looks at him. „Is that one of your questions?“

„No,“ he says. „More like an educated guess.“

„I suppose it wasn't hard to figure that one out,“ she concedes, and then sighs. „Go ahead, ask me. I know you want to.“

He clears his throat. „Where are you from?“

„Nowhere,“ she answers, and he gives her a pointed look. „No, really,“ she says. „I'm not trying to weasel out of an answer. I don't know where I'm from.“

He stays silent, waits for her to continue. „I told you that I grew up in the system.“ Her voice is cool and detached now. Her words come fast, like she regrets her promise of answers. Like she just wants to get it over and done with. „I was left on the doorstep of a group home in Boston when I was a baby. So I'm most likely from there. Although I was nearly six months old, so I could have come from anywhere. Then I got bounced around up and down the East Coast. I've spent time in New Hampshire and New Jersey and North Carolina and Virginia. And lots of other states.“ Both hands are now twisted into the fabric of her bag. „When I got older I kept trying to run away, but they always caught me, always brought me back.“ Her voice drops to a whisper. „And then I met a boy, and I followed him to Florida the day I aged out.“

She stares out the window, her eyes far away.

„He was a small-time crook, but I didn't know that. We got an apartment, I worked as a waitress. And then one day the cops showed up and arrested him. Grand theft auto, they said.“ She takes a deep breath. „I got evicted and ended up in a shelter. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant. And then I---“ Her next breath sounds more like a sob. „I just couldn't stay there, you know?“ Her voice now sounds small and lost and battered, and something inside him begins to ache. „Not among all that hopelessness, all that desperation. I just couldn't---“ Her voice tapers off.

He slowly reaches over, puts his hand on her clenched ones. From the corner of his eye he can see her fighting not to pull them back. But in the end she leaves them where they are, lets his hand squeeze hers, and exhales another shaky breath.

He wills his voice to remain steady, and neutral. „You wanted something better. For both of you.“

„Yeah,“ she whispers. „That's exactly it.“ She shakes her head. „Don't know if I'll find it. But I had to try.“

 

There is nothing he can say.

So he leaves his hand where it is, wrapped around hers.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh guys, i *really* don't know about this one.  
> i just keep falling down these twisting plot rabbit holes, with no plan and no idea how to get back out.  
> It's just so stupid of me, and i should know better -- but then i find myself falling again.  
> And this time i don't even know if the idea itself is worth it, but i'll keep plugging away; try to make good in the end.  
> i hope.


	2. Chapter 2

It comes over her like a tidal wave not even half an hour later.  
Crushing. Guilt.

It’s a tsunami of shame and terror and _oh GODS, I opened my mouth_. She should never be allowed to talk, ever.  
_Ever_.  
The fragments of her life are not meant to see daylight. And when they do, oh -- guilt comes down on her like an anvil at the tail end of every confidence shared. Every piece of herself she decides to reveal. It has been with her her entire life, this compulsion to never show any part of herself. Her soul has its own secret-keeper, and it balks and screams at every shred she lets go. And so she holds on and holds on until she gets so, so _full_ ; and then these bits of herself just float up, just spill out; and she can’t hold them back, and they drip from her mouth; and for a moment, just a moment, there is relief in release.

And then. It just _comes_.  
If guilt were a millstone she would be nothing but dust.

She has to lean forward to breathe, just to breathe. She can feel Killian look at her as her veins start to burn hot; she hears his quiet voice as it asks, “You OK?”  
While her brain just screams _shut up_ and _ShutUp_ and _SHUT. UP._ ; and every word that she’s told him comes crushing down on her, every truth she’s revealed turning into a shard. They come cutting and shredding, all the things she has said, all the pieces of her that she couldn’t hold back. 

She doesn’t answer. Just grinds out, “pull over!”, and he does, and she nearly falls from her seat. Makes it two whole steps, and then vomits and vomits. She can hear trucks zoom by, can feel his hand on her back; and he shouldn’t be touching and compassionate and kind.  
She straightens up with an effort. He's holding a bottle of water out to her; ready and waiting as if he does this all the time. 

“Love?” He says, and it sounds uncertain.  
Well he should be, given that she’s losing her mind.

God, it’s hot.  
It’s so hot and so humid and Emma can't breathe. She has to get back to the A/C of the truck.  
He stands next to her, wordless, as she hauls herself up; and then closes her door; and then quietly walks on back to his side. He gets in, but he makes no motion to leave.  
They sit there in silence, cold air blasting from the dashboard, and he turns in his seat and just _looks_ at her.  
“What’s going on, love?” He finally whispers. “I feel like something happened, but I don’t know what.” He swallows hard. “Did I ask too much?”

She wants to laugh.  
She wants to cry.  
She wants to wreck the goddamn kindness in his eyes.  
She wants to get out and run far away. Somewhere with no people, and no talking, and no signs of life. Somewhere with nothing, nothing but silence. 

Instead she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “I should not have told you any of that. I should not have told you anything last night. I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut.” She looks up at him, tries to keep her voice impassive. “Is there any way you can forget all of that? Pretend I’m part of your passenger seat? And just drop me off at the next town with a bus station?”

Killian looks at her in absolute stillness. Just watching, just watching, not saying a word. Forever.  
For. Ever.  
And then he says, “no.”  
Just like that. Nothing else.  
Turns around, buckles his seat belt, and pulls back onto the freeway.

 

Twenty miles down the road he exits into a small rest area. There are parking spaces and public toilets and a little bit of green with stone picnic tables. He walks over to her side and opens her door; takes her by the hand and leads her into the meadow. He still has not spoken. But he smiles at her as he sits on a bench and pulls her down beside him.  
Emma’s mind has gone absolutely blank. The guilt rollercoaster is not a fun ride, and the nausea didn’t help; so for now she is grateful that she has finally gone numb.

But then.  
Killian wraps her hand in both of his, and squeezes tightly, and the first neuron sparks.  
Damn.  
He leans forward, makes sure to catch her gaze, and then takes a deep breath, like he’s going for a dive.  
“Emma,” he says and his voice is decisive. “I don’t know where you went for the last half hour. But I know a thing or two about what I call the sharing-hangover.”  
He doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t have to. The expression is perfect, and warmth floods her veins. Not like mortification when it burns hot inside her. This doesn't hurt at all; it feels-- good. 

“So here is what we are going to do,” he goes on after a moment, his voice still steadfast and sure. “We’re going to figure out something for you to eat that you can actually keep down. And we’ll keep driving until we get to Maine. And then we’ll take it from there.” His voice lowers, becomes somber. “I’m not going to ask you any more questions. And--- oh.” He interrupts himself. Looks at her now with what feels like apprehension.  
“Love,” he says quietly, “have you been to see a doctor? At all?”  
She’s caught in a strange space between fight, flight, and limbo, and all she can do is just shake her head.  
His eyes are so soft now. “So you don’t know… anything?”  
She shrugs.  
None of this is real.  
Her life is a drift of broken pieces, suspended in time; and this whole strange trip, all of it, everything -- is just another fractured shard spiraling out. She is slowly floating away from herself, like she does, like she has done, like she always does. 

That is how Emma runs. Away. Inside her head.

Only this time there is a fixed point anchoring her, and it is his hand, still holding hers. His skin is calloused. His fingers are warm, his grip firm, like he means it. Does he know, can he tell that she’s holding on to him?  
“Do you think that’s something you might want to do?”  
She doesn't understand the question, has lost his train of thought.  
“You know. Go get checked out?”

 _It’s not real, it’s not real_.  
_It’s just a plus sign on a plastic stick_.  
_It’s just nausea coming in the middle of the night_.

He leans back and waits for her to respond. But he doesn’t let go.  
She just sits there, trying to sort through her signals, but in the end she nods and whispers, “OK.”

 

 

“I can wait here, if you want me to.”  
They're sitting in his truck, in the parking lot of a free clinic, in a small South Carolina town. Emma has not said one word since her “OK” at the rest stop. But she has smiled at him and squeezed his hand twice. He'll take it.  
Now she smiles at him again, and raises an eyebrow. “Of course you can come in. I’ll have to wait forever. You can't sit out here for hours, frying in the parking lot.”  
He can't tell if he's more relieved that he won't have to sit in a baking truck, or that she's talking again, or that she doesn't mind sitting with him while she waits. 

 

They do wait forever.  
Emma signs in and they sit on the uncomfortable plastic seats which are the required inventory of every waiting room of every hospital on the planet. Emma fiddles with her shirtsleeve, and then suddenly she laughs. It's so unexpected that he actually jumps. Which makes her laugh more.  
When he looks at her, she's wiping tears from her eyes. “Tell me this isn't the most fucked up trip you've ever taken,” she says, still chuckling. “This whole situation is so batshit crazy, you almost have to admire just how fucked up it is. It's upfuck perfection.”  
He bursts out a laugh. “Upfuck perfection?”  
“Yep. That's my new word for--” her hand draws a wide arc, “all of this. I am the freaking mayor of Upfuck Perfection.”  
She's alive now, animated – all gestures and bright eyes and dancing eyebrows. Her whole face has changed. Her whole bearing has changed. For the first time he feels that he's looking at _Emma_.  
She puts a hand on his arm. “And you, gods-- you got caught in the slipstream while you were just passing through.”  
“Are you going to apologize again?”  
“No,” she smiles. “But I am trying to say that I'm sorry. I never meant for you to... to end up here. I swear, all I wanted was a ride.”  
Her eyes are burning into his, sincere and honest and heartfelt and earnest.  
He can't look away.  
He can't not believe her.  
He can't speak. Just nod.

Then Emma blinks and breaks the moment, and he feels like he was just released from a spell.  
“And you know the worst part?” She sighs. “The worst part is that I would kill for a grilled cheese now.” She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, kill. I can't remember the last time I had one.”  
He can feel a grin start to split his face. “Could have had one yesterday.”  
“Don't remind me,” she groans. “I'm an idiot.”  
At that moment a nurse steps in and calls out “Emma Swan?”  
He feels her whole body stiffen next to his. Her eyes narrow, her jaw sets, and she gets up as if she were fighting twice the gravity.  
“I'll be right here,” he says, and she nods and turns; and then he watches as she disappears through swinging double doors.

He spends the time trying to get his thoughts in order.  
Because he's not a knight, not in any kind of armor. He's a loner and a maverick and an occasional drunk. And he likes it that way.  
He never could explain how this translated into feeling at home in the Navy; how his need for solitude and space worked within the confines of a ship. He just knows that it did. He had liked the rigidly defined interaction of military life. That the social aspects came with actual rules. That the friendships he had made were both meaningful and distant. That the bonds he had forged had been thicker than blood, and yet never required him to give what he wanted to keep. He had had no problem putting his life in the hands of others. As long as he didn't have to let them in.  
And now this creature has come along; this dervish who has blown past all of his defenses. Made him open his eyes and pay attention. Made him want things for someone other than himself. Fought him and battled him over every last one of his newfound notions of kindness and decency.

And that strange pull she has is just getting stronger.  
He's starting to worry that there will come a point when he will no longer be able to fight it. And the thing that scares him most is how little it scares him.

 

 

“I feel I should tell you something.”

They are sitting in a booth at a diner, less than half a mile down the road from the clinic. Eating grilled cheese sandwiches with onion rings.  
Killian had pointed out that it had been hours since breakfast. Emma hadn't protested, just gone along. When she'd come back to the waiting room she'd looked positively shellshocked, but it's been gradually reducing to bewildered and dazed.  
And she's eating with gusto, which makes him oddly happy. When he starts to talk, she looks up at him and smiles. Her lips are shiny from the grease.  


“Tell me what?”  
He clears his throat. “I wasn't exactly honest before.” She raises both eyebrows and waits for him to go on. “I didn't just leave the Navy.” He sighs. Now or never. “I was cashiered.”  
She looks at him, puzzled. “Is that like getting kicked out?”  
He nods. “That's exactly what it is.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He has not told a living soul except Liam; but she's been honest with him, and maybe he can be with her.  
“Why?” Her expression is open and completely without judgment.  
“My CO and I had a small disagreement,” he says and tries not to become too glib. “There were many reasons, and I don't---” He has to close his eyes. Can't keep looking at that sincere expression on her face. “Let's just say they had plenty of grounds to dismiss me. Not the least of which was disregarding a whole slew of direct orders.”  
She remains quiet and finally he does look at her.  
“Also,” he mumbles, “I might have punched my CO.”  
Her eyes go wide as saucers. “You punched your CO?”  
He just nods.  
“Did he deserve it?”  
Killian barks a laugh. What an utterly ridiculous question. And the worst part is – it is the right one. To him it is the only question that matters. “Yes. He did.”  
“Good,” she says, and bites into another onion ring.

Gods help him, she's impossible. And amazing. She's just sitting there, chewing; like his life isn't broken into a million pieces, like the mess that he's in is any smaller than her own. Like she isn't the most extraordinary person on the planet. 

Then she takes a sip of water and says, “twelve weeks.”  
“What?” Has he missed something?  
“Twelve weeks along. As best as she could tell.”  
Oh. OH.  
“So three months then?” What a stupid thing to say. He wants to slap himself.  
She nods. “Like I said, as best as she could tell. I've never been what you would call regular.” She looks at him like she expects a disgusted comment, but honestly, gods – he is an adult. He can buy tampons without squirming. He can definitely listen to this without derision. Not for the first time he wonders about that guy back in Florida.  
“And is everything alright?” He doesn't know if he can ask this. If he has the right to know.  
She bites her lip and nods again. When she looks at him, there are tears in her eyes. On the table her hands twist by the fingers.  
“I didn't think----” She shakes her head. “I didn't... until today, it wasn't really real. Not, you know, _really_ real. It was this theoretical, hypothetical situation, this--- this _thing_ just hovering in the back of my mind. And then today... today---” She takes a deep breath and surreptitiously wipes the corners of her eyes. “And then today, there was this _fucking heartbeat_.”  
He can't watch her hands keep wringing empty space; and so he wraps his hands around hers, waits as they still. She looks down and loses the battle with her tears. “Suddenly it was real.” Her voice is a whisper. “It was real and I don't know what to do with that.”

There it is again, that pull, that urge to make her feel better.  
He slides out of his booth seat and in next to her, and just hugs her. She resists for a moment and then melts into him, her face buried in his chest as her shoulders shake. She feels warm against him, and somehow solid, and-- right.  
They stay like that for minutes, and gods, she just fits. How can rubbing her back be soothing him?  
When she finally looks up, wiping her eyes, she smiles, a brilliant, genuine smile. “Are we the two sorriest creatures ever to hog a diner booth or what?”  
He can't help it, he laughs – loud, and heartfelt, and free.  
“We might be, love. But that's part of our charm.”

 

She falls asleep a few miles up the freeway. He keeps driving for hours, his mind strangely blank.  
Around 2 am, he can't fight sleep any longer, so he pulls up to the first roadside motel he can find.  
She doesn't wake up when he gets them a room. Doesn't wake up when he carries her inside. Doesn't wake up when he pulls off her shoes; just curls up under the blanket and sighs into her pillow. He lies down beside her, his back warm against hers. 

He falls asleep as a decrepit white Ford pulls in at the far end end of the parking lot.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. That was So. Hard.  
> This chapter turned out to be a bitch i had to beat into submission until it almost broke us both.  
> And then Emma and Killian beat *me* into submission, because apparently i was trying to bend them into people they were not. Remember when i said this would be fluffier and less dark?  
> Yeah, well... this version of E & K had a thing or two to say about THAT.
> 
> The good news is that now i know where this story is going.  
> And that the OTP in question has already worked out most of their jagged edges, so there's finally room for some nicer moments.
> 
>  
> 
> For the lovely and wonderful profdanglais, who spends her time being brilliant and asking all the right questions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i keep forgetting to mention: i'm ThisOneSatellite on tumblr, if you want to say hi!

The bathroom door opening wakes Killian up. Dawn is just creeping over the horizon. He opens his eyes slowly, his lids heavy and leaden.  
Emma is across the room, standing in front of the cheap full-length mirror. She has her shirt pulled up and she's looking at her profile. He can see that she is still much too thin, and that there is a very, _very_ slight curve to her belly. Hardly noticeable. But there.  
Emma slowly puts her hand on her stomach, as if she were touching a foreign object; and the moment is so private, so personal, so intimate that he has to close his eyes. He cannot intrude on this, it belongs to her.  
He hears her sigh, and a moment later the bed dips beside him.

“I know you're awake,” she says. “You're breathing too fast.”  
He opens his eyes as shame runs hot through him.  
Emma sits next to him, cross-legged, leaning forward; looking straight at him. “Also, you realize I was looking into a mirror. They reflect.”

Oh.  
Fuck.

“It's OK, you know,” she says, her mouth quirking a small smile. “You of all people deserve a look.”  
He doesn't know what to say.  
Emma reaches out and takes his hand. “I wanted to thank you. For yesterday.”  
He raises an eyebrow.  
“For everything. Letting me freak out and not kicking me to the kerb and taking me to a doctor, and, just--- you know you're being too nice to me, right? I don't deserve any of this.”  
She's still staring at him, eyes wide and serious. “Say something. Please.”

“Emma.” He sits up. Doesn't let go of her hand. “Have you ever taken anything you didn't earn?”  
She blinks at him.  
“Have you ever asked for a favor you didn't return? Have you ever asked anyone, anywhere for help? In you whole entire life?”  
She blinks again and then shakes her head slowly.  
“I thought so. I know you can take care of yourself. But you know – it's high time you had bit of luck.”

Her eyes well with tears and she shakes her head. She sniffs a few times, but can't hold them back, and ends up wiping her cheeks with hard, angry strokes.  
When she finally speaks, it's pure defiance in the face of immutable facts. “I'm going to blame these on hormones.”  
He laughs, because he knows that's all the emotion they can handle, and then squeezes her hand.

She gives him a grateful look. “Where are we?”  
“Somewhere on the southern tip of Massachussetts.”  
“Wow. You got far. Wait – what time did you stop?”  
“2 am. You were out like a light.”  
“Yes,” her brow crinkles, “I noticed you snuck me onto the bed.”  
She looks at the nightstand.  
“Killian,” she says, “it's only 6:30. You've only slept four hours?”  
His head suddenly feels like it weighs a ton.  
“Lie down right now.” She pushes at his shoulders. “Go back to sleep. Because if you doze off later going eighty and kill us, I'm going to be so mad at you.”  
He has to smile. And he also has to admit that he is dead tired, so he slides down without protest and grabs the pillow. As he closes his eyes he feels her lie down beside him.  
Not touching.  
But also not leaving, either.

 

It's 10 o'clock the next time Killian wakes up and Emma has had a lot of time to think.

About how this entire trip started out as nothing but flight instinct manifested – down to the stolen cardboard and the permanently borrowed Sharpie for the sign. About how 'north' had been just a symbol for change; an idealized notion of something better 'out there' – when all she had done was pick a random direction. About how this perfect stranger had come along; and done more for her in 24 hours than Neal ever had in five long years. About being due for a piece of luck.  
Emma doesn't ask for help, ever, and it has nothing at all to do with misplaced pride.  
It is quite literally due to the fact that Emma has never _had_ anyone to ask. The notion of asking for help simply does not occur to her.  
Because it has never been an option. 

Emma sighs. Her thoughts have been circling the drain for hours, and she cannot think anymore.  
So she turns towards Killian, and he opens his eyes.  
He looks rumpled and still tired; and yet the first words out of his mouth are, “did you sleep OK?”  
Impossible man. Asking about her first thing out of the gate.  
And then it hits her. “I didn't throw up!”  
He smiles, as if he is happy about that. As if it _mattered_ in his world.  
He squeezes her hand and says, “good!”; and then he thankfully starts to get up, because a whole new wave of tears are welling up in Emma's eyes and she needs a moment to wipe them away.  
These hormones?  
She needs to get those under control. Right the fuck now.

She gets dressed while he is in the bathroom and then walks up to the mirror one more time. She doesn't have the courage to lift her shirt again. It's all so odd and alien to her still. So she just stares at herself, biting her lip, and when she looks up she sees him standing behind her, towel in hand. His eyes flick away immediately; and when she turns to face him, he looks guilty, contrite.  
His hand moves up to scratch behind his right ear, and she realizes that she has seen him do so several times.  
Many, many times. Most of them in the clinic waiting room.  
This must be something he does when he's nervous, really nervous; and it's strange how much that thought puts her at ease.  
It lets her smile at him, and say, “it's alright.”  
He's staring at the floor and mumbling that he's sorry, and so she puts her hand on his arm and repeats, “it's OK, Killian. Really.”

At the mention of his name his head snaps up, and there is--- relief?-- in his eyes. She cannot place his expression and doesn't want to guess.  
So she asks. “Is this getting too real for you?”  
He looks her straight in the eyes and shakes his head.  
She has to whisper the next part, because her voice has stopped working. “I would understand, you know. It's getting a little to real for me.”

Instead of an answer he takes one step forward.  
And then another.  
His eyes never leave hers; and then he slowly, oh so slowly, raises his hand and runs his knuckles down her shirt front, from her solar plexus to right past her bellybutton. The touch is so light she can hardly feel it.  
There is no way, absolutely no way she can stop the tears this time. They just roll down her cheeks as if they'd been lying in wait.  
He takes one more step and then his arms come around her, solid and comforting, the way they did at the diner. Just _there_.  
And if his T-shirt gets a little wet in the time it takes her to pull herself back together, he doesn't comment on it.

Fifteen minutes later they walk out the door and drive off in his truck.

 

The owner of the white Ford hits send on a two-word message.  
_It's her_.  
He gives them a 30 second head start and then pulls out into traffic behind them.

 

 

It's past noon when they get to Storybrooke.  
Emma stares at the painted store fronts and the manicured lawns and feels like she's just entered a freaking picture postcard. Nothing on earth should be this pretty.  
Killian next to her looks exactly the way she feels as he shrugs and mumbles, “how surreal is this?”  
She is so, so grateful for it.  
“I know,” she replies. “It feels like we just drove into---”  
“---a magazine,” he finishes her sentence. “With a list named 'Ten New England Destinations This Fall.'”  
She laughs out loud, because she feels understood, and when he looks over and grins at her, something warm and pleasant starts to spread through her chest.

Then Killian parks in front of a diner and cuts the engine.  
“This is Granny's, I guess,” he says, squinting at the sign above it. “I’m supposed go there to find out about my new job. And to get a room.” He looks at her. “Also it's past time for lunch and we really should eat.”  
Emma can hear _You'reStillTooFuckingThin_ through every single word, but decides to let it go. Maybe she can ask for a job here as well. And find out about cheap motels. And if neither pan out, the next bus to Portland.  
He puts his hand on the door handle. “Ready?”  
She nods.  
It's not until they have been pointed to a booth that she notices his hand, warm and steady, at the small of her back.

The waitress introduces herself as Ruby. She's a tall bit of gorgeous with legs up to her chin and red streaks in her hair, and Killian seems not to notice at all. Even though she is sex on a stick. He just asks for scrambled eggs and toast as if he were ordering at a drive-through speaker, and Emma can't stop smiling because he's _impossible_. Then he looks up and waits for Emma to order, and sees her grinning, and just smiles back.  
Like she is the only person there.

“Is Mrs Lucas here?” He asks Ruby as soon as Emma is done getting yet another grilled cheese with onion rings. “I have a job lined up and I'm supposed to ask her about it.”  
Ruby smacks her gum, yells “Granny!” over her shoulder, and sashays off after promising to get their drinks. And then a short, stocky woman emerges from the kitchen and approaches their table as if she was marching into battle.  
“What do you want?” Her tone is skirting hostile.  
Killian is not fazed in the least. “My name is Killian Jones,” he says, all honey dripping from sharpened teeth, “and I am supposed to be Storybrooke's new harbor master. I was told to ask you whom I should talk to about that. And I was also told that you have some reasonably priced rooms. Of which I would require one.”  
Granny blinks slowly, and Emma can see her readjusting her stance before Killian's quietly commanding tone. The Navy Lieutenant is front and center.  
“Fair enough,” Granny answers, putting her hands on her hips, but not nearly as brusque as she was a moment ago. “For the job you have to go see the mayor. Her name is Regina Mills and she has office hours at the Town Hall.”  
Then she looks him up and down once. “As far as rooms go, yes, I have plenty, now that fall is on its way out and the tourists are finally letting up. I'm sure I can accommodate you.”  
“Do you think the mayor might also have a line on other jobs?” Emma blurts out, before she can stop herself. “Or do you know of any?”  
Granny gives Emma the same once-over she did Killian; but before she can answer Ruby appears at her elbow, carrying their drinks.  
“You can have mine,” she says. “I'm about to head back to New York.”  
Granny sputters. Ruby just raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow and turns to Granny with a complete absence of empathy.  
“Stop it,” she says. “You knew I was only here to help you through the tourist season because Anna quit. I was never going to stay.”  
Ruby looks at Emma. “Can you waitress?”  
Emma nods.  
“Can you clean?”  
Emma nods again.  
“Done,” Ruby says, and points a defiant chin at Granny. 

The older woman cedes defeat before the force of nature that is Ruby, and sighs.  
“Since my granddaughter apparently has more say than I do about what happens _in my own diner_ ,” she grumbles, “you can work here. _But_ on a trial basis. Let's start with one month and then see where we are.”  
She shoots Ruby a look that would have broken military generals, and earns herself the sweetest smile this side of Southern congeniality.

Emma bites her lip and forces herself to ask the next question. “Are there any cheap-ish motels in the area?”  
She can see Killian's heckles rise at that, but she ignores him and stays focused on Granny.  
The older woman quirks the left corner of her mouth. “My rooms are the most affordable accomodation around. Unless you want to bus it to the nearest Portland crack den.”  
Emma hears Killian draw a deep breath and heads him off at the pass. “Define affordable,” she says. “You'll be the one paying me. Will it afford me a roof over my head?”  
Granny cracks a grin. “It seems to be my lot in life to spend it surrounded by bothersome spitfires,” she chuckles. “But yes, I think we can work something out.”  
Emma exhales the breath she had been holding and gives her new employer a heartfelt “thank you.”  
“Come see me about your rooms when you're done eating,” Granny says and then disappears back to the kitchen.

And Emma can finally turn back to Killian.  
He looks incredibly relieved.  
“I know I have no business telling you anything about how to live your life,” he says softly. “But I can't help being glad that you are not going to live in a crackhead motel.”  
She's about to shoot him a quick joking comeback, and then she sees the look in his eyes. He really is glad. Glad, and--- happy for her. So she nods and allows herself some relief of her own.  
“Are you going to tell her?” Killian's voice is still soft, and careful.  
Emma shudders, and he takes her hand in his. It's almost a reflex. “I'm going to have to, I think. But maybe not right this second.”  
He squeezes her fingers, and in that same soft voice tells her that everything will be alright.  
And for the moment, Emma believes him.

 

Hours later Emma gets out of the shower and sits down on a nice, comfortable bed.

Killian is down at the harbor with the mayor and she has nothing to do until 6 am sharp the next morning, when she is to report for her first diner shift.

She cannot recall ever having been this tired. In the silence of the room she can hear her bones creak.  
She dumps the contents of her duffle on the mattress and sifts through her belongings; slowly and methodically dropping everything that needs to be washed into a pile on the floor. In the end she is left with one pair of leggings and one T-shirt for tomorrow. She lays them neatly on the chair beside her, before slipping into her last oversize sleep shirt. She stares at the laundry pile for minutes on end without seeing it, before stuffing it all back into her bag.  
She has to find a laundromat tomorrow.

On the nightstand are her watch, her wallet, and one pair of cheap silver earrings.  
It is the sum total of her personal effects.  
She doesn't have to check her wallet, she knows what's in it: 57 dollars, 31 cents and a Massachusetts State ID. Nothing else.  
It would not take much to erase her from this planet. She has not made a dent in this world. She has sifted through the maelstrom of her life without ever leaving a permanent mark.  
Until now.  
Now she has this heartbeat inside her that does not belong to her. She is becoming more than one person. She is no longer just a shadow in the face of her own existence.  
And even though she can't think about what is happening in the grand scheme of things, there is an echo of _It'sNoLongerJustYou, StartActingLikeIt_.

She can't, yet.  
She will have to, soon.

But for now she just stares out the window, down a street of pretty painted shop fronts and strolling late fall tourists, and very few cars, driving slowly. The breeze has started to blow cool, but she cannot bring herself to move. She is mesmerized by the tranquil image of this unhurried, sleepy, picturesque town; so different from all the other places she has been forced to inhabit; breathing its drowsy rhythm under a slowly darkening sky.  
She has never felt as peaceful as this, and she only now realizes that peace is so much more than the absence of fear.

 

A knock on her door startles her from her thoughts. The room has gone almost entirely dark. Outside the streetlights have come on.  
“Emma?” Killian enters with hesitation. “I'm sorry-- were you sleeping?”  
“No,” Emma says, “I was just thinking. You can turn on the light.”  
He flicks a switch and Emma shudders.  
His brows crinkle. “It's freezing in here, love.”  
He walks over to the bed. “Are you sitting here with just a T-shirt on?” He takes her hands and starts rubbing warmth into them immediately. “Jesus, Emma, you're a block of ice. Do you have a sweater?”  
She doesn't feel cold. But she pulls up her bag and digs around until she finds a sweatshirt which isn't too dirty. She puts it on while Killian closes her window and then sits down next to her on the bed.  
“You OK, love?”  
“Yeah,” she smiles, and she means it. “I'm good.”  
He rubs her arms a few times until she stills his hands. “I'm fine, Killian. Tell me about your job.”  
He lets go of her slowly. “Not much to tell, really. The season is basically over, so there are not many vessels left in the harbor. Most of them belong to residents – and let me tell you, there are some gorgeous sailboats at that marina. Beautiful ships.” His eyes get a dreamy, faraway look, and Emma thinks that boats might mean more to him than just the Navy. There is love buried underneath his absent smile.

“Anyway,” he shakes himself back to the present, “I guess that's why the current harbor master chose to retire now. So he can show me the ropes before the next season starts. It doesn't look to be too much work, certainly not until spring. And it comes with a small office overlooking the sea.” His smile is soft and happy, and so are his eyes.  
“That sounds great,” Emma says, and then she remembers. “Was your brother there?”  
“What?” His eyebrows furrow and the softness disappears.  
“Your brother. I thought he got you the job...?” She feels like she might have said the wrong thing.  
But his brow relaxes. “Oh, yes, he did. I forgot I told you.” His voice is not angry. “No, Liam's in Portland, like I said. The harbor master is an old friend of his. Actually he was Liam's first commanding officer.”  
“Liam was in the Navy?”  
Killian sighs. “Liam _is_ in the Navy.”  
Emma stares at him. There is so much more to this story. Not that she'll ever be able to ask.  
Killian looks up at her and quirks a self-deprecating grin. “And you thought you were the only one whose life was a mess.”  
He's trying to make light of something that's obviously painful, and he shouldn't have to. So she slides closer and hugs him, because it's his turn for comfort. He sinks into her embrace, takes a shuddering breath, and she holds him tighter, his head on her chest.  
“I never said I was the only one with complications,” she says softly as his hair tickles her chin. “But I do have dibs.”  
And he sputters a laugh.

 

That night her mind takes her back to the red house, and fear and terror follow in its wake.

 _Emma_. The voice is urgent, insistent. _Emma, wake up_.  
She bolts upright with all her senses in overdrive, in a foreign bed, twisted into her sheets. She is breathing hard, cold sweat clings to her skin, and she comes back to herself only by degrees.

She is in her bed, in her room at Granny's. The light is on, the door slightly ajar. Killian sits on the edge of the bed, one hand clasping her wrist, his eyes wide and worried. Her head feels heavy and her mouth is dry.

“What happened?” Her voice is pure gravel and dust.  
“You were screaming again, love,” he says, his voice unsteady. “I could hear you all the way across to my room.”  
He lifts her hand to his chest, entwines their fingers. “Bad dream?”  
“Yeah, I guess so.” _Don't ask me, Don'tAskMe_.  
“Did you--- do you want to tell me?”  
_Not for all the money on the fucking planet_. “Not really, no.” She looks at concern written all over his face and she tries, but all that comes out is, “sorry.” 

He just nods and lets it go.  
Doesn't mention that this is not the first time she's done this. To him.  
But his grip on her hand tightens a fraction.

And then it comes, _it comes_ , and she barely makes it to the bathroom in time. It's violent, the retching that always follows the Red Dream, and she can feel his hand, once again rubbing her back. It should not comfort her as much as it does. She should not be getting this used to his kindness.

When she comes back up, he's right there, _right there_ , with a cup full of water and a wet towel and those kind eyes.  
Swish, spit, and wipe; and she's back to square one. And he is still worried. She really is the mayor of Upfuck Perfection. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her stomach is touch and go for a second, but then settles down, and she can look back at him.  
“I'm sorry I woke you up.”  
“Please don't---” he cuts himself off. “I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”  
“I'm fine, I promise.”  
He runs a finger down her cheek. “You're soaked, love. Don't worry, I won't ask, but you are definitely not fine.”  
She exhales and whispers, “thanks for not asking. I don't think I can---”  
“I know,” he says quietly. “I get that. But if you ever want to talk, you know where I am.”  
She doesn't reply, but somehow his words settle warm in her chest. They shouldn't. But they do.  
“I think I need to take a shower,” she says, and then groans.  
“What's wrong?” He's back on high alert.  
“I have no clean clothes left.” Fuck, her life is pitiful.  
He laughs in relief. “Is that all? Hang on a moment.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I mean it, hang on. Don't try to get up yet.”  
And leaves the room.

She wants to bristle.  
She wants to get up just to show him that she is perfectly capable.  
Perfectly. Capable.  
But she can't stop shivering, and her head is so heavy, and it's more comfortable to just lean back against the tub.  
He returns a moment later, holding a Henley and some sweat pants, and puts them both carefully at the edge of the sink.  
“They'll be huge on you,” he says, crouching back down, “but they're clean and they're warm.”  
Without another word he slides his arms under hers, and pulls her up to stand next to him.  
Stays where he is for a moment, his hands on her hips.  
“Steady?” He asks.  
“Rock steady,” she answers, and he lets her go.

When he turns around to leave, the memory of the Red Dream slams back with such force that she has to hold on to the sink for a moment. She swallows hard as the door closes softly behind him, and she only just manages to turn on the water, before the dam breaks and she cries.  
And cries.  
_And cries_.  
She gets into the shower and sobs and sobs, until her hands tremble and her legs shake and her eyes are nearly swollen shut. 

It takes her many, many long minutes to collect herself back into a semblance of normal.  
At least to stop crying.  
Twice she has to turn the shower back on, because she is derailed by a fresh flood of tears. She hates these kind of tears, the kind that bring no relief, and just leave her exhausted and empty and wretched.  
When she finally gets done and pulls on Killian's clothes, they feel so soft and so cozy that she nearly cries again. With an effort she gets herself under control and opens the door.

Killian is sitting on the edge of her bed, lit only by the small lamp on her bedside table.  
“I just wanted to make sure you didn't pass out in the show---” his voice tapers off as she comes into view. He looks at the red puffy mess that she is and opens his arms and just says, “come here.”

And she shouldn't.  
She shouldn't.

But she can't fight any more, not now, not tonight; and she falls into him, lets him pull her down beside him; and he's solid and warm as he wraps his arms around her.  
And she lets him.  
Lies back on the mattress, lets him curl his body around her, lets him pull up the covers and turn off the light.

 

 

Out by the marina, the man in the white Ford sends another message.

 _Storybrooke, Maine_.  
_Looks like she's done traveling for now_.

Then he reclines his seat and waits for an answer.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story is like climbing a sand dune.  
> You sink down to your ankle with every step, but somehow, *somehow* you do reach the top.  
> (Only to discover more sand dunes. But that's another chapter for another day.)
> 
> And yes, there are storm clouds brewing on the horizon, but not yet, guys - not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Blaring beeps rip them from their sleep.

Next to Killian Emma groans and then throws herself halfway across him to reach the night stand and the snooze button, and then beautiful silence fills the air.

She slumps down and groans again. “Fuck, it’s early.”

It is. It’s still dark. Killian glances over at the clock radio and the numbers 5:25 stare back at him accusingly. And then he realizes Emma is draped across him. Literally.

Emma seems to realize it at the same exact moment, because her body starts to stiffen and she pushes herself up.

But she doesn’t take flight. She just slides back down to her side. And then lies there, quiet, her face shadowed from the spare light of the street lamps filtering through the blinds. She looks disheveled and sleepy and--- beautiful. Her eyes are soft and her small smile is easy.

 

He can’t break this moment, because he wants it to last.

 

She does it for him, but her voice is a whisper. “I have to get up.”

He matches her hush. “What time do you have to be at work?”

Her smile widens at the word ‘work’. “I have a job.”

He has to smile back. “You have a job.”

Then she groans and gets up and heads to the bathroom, and he turns around and buries his nose in her pillow. It smells like Emma, like fabric softener and cotton and sunshine. Then he laughs at himself. Because no one smells of sunshine, and that was just too fucking poetic.

Pathetic.

Whichever.

 

He has gotten himself into something here. He can't tell what it is, yet, but he's in it now.

He's in it now.

 

 

That night he simply follows her to her room after dinner. And when she nods, he lies down beside her.

Just like the next night.

And the one after that.

And each night they fall asleep, back to warm back; and there are no nightmares and there are no screams.

 

 

The morning of the fifth day there is no alarm. And when Killian opens his eyes, Emma's awake. She lying on her side, facing him – rumpled and soft and so very lovely.

Looking at Emma first thing in the morning has become his favorite moment of every day.

 

And then she glances at the nightstand and rolls her eyes.

She huffs in frustration. “What is the point of having a day off if I still wake up at 6 am? That's so stupid of me.”

He has to smile. “It's your day off?”

She nods.

“Then that is indeed very, very stupid. Idiotic.”

She punches his shoulder and grins. Then her eyes grow serious. “I slept really well. This whole week, I slept really, really well.”

He meets her gaze. “No more dreams?”

“No.” She looks at him like he should take credit for it.

 

And then.

She closes the distance and presses her lips to his.

 

It’s tentative and yet resolute and he just melts into it. Her lips are soft and pliant and his arm snakes around her waist and her hand starts to wander up his arm and it’s so, it’s so… He doesn’t have a word for what it is.

He just feels. Right. Fated.  _Happy_ .

 

Her lips open and every single nerve of his comes online. Neurons start sparking like firecrackers.

He’s lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the soft exploration.

So lost that he does not notice at first that her hands are starting to wander south. Skirting the bottom edge of his T-shirt. Starting to lift and expose his skin. Her kisses turn hungry, her back starts to arch and her pelvis grinds forward to where he’s so hard and so ready. Her right hand wanders further, starts to feel him through fabric, and from down deep inside him comes a stuttering moan. He pushes her onto her back, blankets her body, feels her moving beneath him, feels her hand close around him, and _god_ it feels good.

 

And then he catches a glimpse of her face.

The look on it is not desire. It’s desperation.

 

It hits him like a punch to the gut.

 

“Wait,” he grinds out. “Emma.” She's still going. “ _Emma, wait_.”

She stills completely. Her right hand is frozen. He takes it in his, lifts it up to his chest, and with his other hand reaches up to cup her cheek.

Her breath starts to hitch and she looks like she might shatter.

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.

 

He takes a deep breath to calm himself, and then makes a decision. He picks her up, gets up off the bed, and then sits down on the arm chair next to the window; Emma on his lap. Holding her tightly.

Her eyes are squeezed shut and she is stiff as a board.

 

“Love,” he says gently, “open your eyes.” She shakes her head no.

“Emma. Please look at me.” This time she doesn’t even shake her head.

He swallows hard. This will make them or break them, but the one thing he can’t do, the one thing he  _won’t_ do, is break  _her_ . And every one of his instincts tells him that they were about to.

“Emma, please, love, please listen to me.” No movement. He can’t even tell if she’s breathing.

“I need you to know that the last thing I wanted to do was to stop.” Words and emotions and intuition are crashing into each other, getting tangled and snared and he’s caught in the middle. “I’m so sorry, love. But I'm trying--- I'm trying not to hurt you.”

Is that a breath she is taking?

“It’s a big thing for two people to come together like that. It’s the most important connection we can make with another human being. And it can't be--- it can't be--- not out of obligation. Or gratitude.”

 

He doesn’t know if he is making sense. If he is making it better or worse. If he’s doing the right thing or causing damage.

He will never forgive himself if it is the latter.

 

A shudder runs through her. Her eyes are still firmly squeezed shut.

If he slips on the edge of this knife it will cut them to shreds. With nothing left standing. He has never felt this scared or this desperate.

 

He lifts her chin. “Please open your eyes.” All that’s left of his voice is a hush.

But she does.

She does.

They’re large and empty and looking at nothing.

All the tangled phrases in his head, all his convoluted thoughts, all the things he is afraid to say, are screaming at him inside his head; are twisting and coiling and spiraling out, into cacophony, into  _bedlam_ .

So he takes a breath and digs down deep for the truth. Hopes it will set them free.

“Emma, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what the right-- All I know is that it felt like… that it felt--- “ Another deep breath. “When we do this it should be because you want to. Really want to.” His voice has become a raw whisper. “It should be because you want me. Not because you feel you owe me.”

 

She looks up.

And she’s back, she’s right there,  _right there_ . With him.

“Why do you have to be right all the time?” Her voice is soft, but it’s hers and it’s _here_. “I was trying--- it was never---” She sniffs. “I think I'm going to cry now.”

She sobs a laugh and then buries her head in his chest. She makes no noise as her shoulders shake, but his shirt front gets damp as he holds her and waits.

It feels like these tears have been coming for decades. This is the sadness of ancient wounds.

 

When she finally looks up again, she is smiling.

_Smiling_ .

“God, I’m so tired of being fucked up.” Her voice is clear and strong.

“Killian,” she says, “I need you to know that I am not that person. That messed up, fucked up---

“Stop it. I already know that. But you're human. You get to have a moment of weakness once in a while. You're allowed.”

“I don't want to. I don't like it.” She sounds halfway between sarcastic and petulant and he laughs.

“Yeah, well, get used to it. It happens. To you and seven billion other people. All the time.”

She smiles. “That doesn't mean I have to _like_ it.”

“No,” he says, and then smiles back at her. “But you have to let yourself. And not beat yourself up over it. Because as I've mentioned, you are human. And that's part of the human condition. You can't escape it.”

She reaches back and takes his hand. “You're a very smart man, Killian Jones. And still too fucking good to me.”

He leans forward, presses a small kiss into her hair. “Why don't you let me be the judge of that.”

She exhales, and leans her head on his chest, tucked under his chin. “OK.” She sounds exhausted.

 

After a moment of silence she asks, “Killian?”

“Yes, love?”

“I made a doctor's appointment for this afternoon. You know – now that I'm here I should probably get to know the resident OB/GYN. I think.”

He grins. “That is not the worst idea ever.”

She pulls back and smirks at him. “I'm glad you think so. I do have my moments.” Her voice goes quiet. “Would you like to come with me?”

His breath catches and he can feel his eyes go wide. This is a big thing for her to offer to share with him.

“Not that you have to. You are in no way obligated to come, or do anything, or--”

She's babbling and he has to cut her off. “I'd love to.”

He can feel her sigh of relief through his whole body. “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure, love. I'd be honored.”

“Good,” she sighs. “I'd like that.”

 

She puts her head back on his chest, and then does something he has not seen her do before. She slowly lifts her right hand and settles it on her belly.

And leaves it there.

 

 

 

 

The sign on the door reads Dr. E. Arendelle, M.D. Her office is in a wing of the local hospital which is painted a startling yellow and pink and blue. Emma’s lips are a thin line and have been since they left Granny’s. She keeps taking excessively deep breaths. Her teeth have not left her bottom lip. Her fist, as she raises it to knock, is unsteady.

When a bright voice behind the door calls, “come in!”, she flinches.

 

Killian puts his hand on her shoulder and feels it shudder.

“Don’t be scared,” he says.

She takes another deep breath and they enter.

 

Dr. Arendelle has a warm smile and an easygoing manner. She introduces herself as Elsa and asks them both to have a seat.

“Since this is your first time, I’m going to get a complete anamnesis from you.”

They both look at her in confusion and she smiles. “Anamnesis means medical history. It mostly means asking you questions about your health. But,” she addresses Emma directly, “it is something which is subject to doctor-patient confidentiality, so you might want privacy.” Looking at Killian she adds, “I mean no offense. Usually the father of the baby is more than welcome at---” 

“He’s not the father,” Emma says, her voice unsteady.

Elsa looks at both.

“He’s not--- it’s complicated,” Emma mumbles. “But he’s here, and I….” Her voice trails off.

Elsa smiles. “This is your time, Emma,” she says softly. “You can bring along anyone you wish to be here. There is no judgment. If you want him here, he stays.”

“I want him here.” It’s a whisper, and it runs down Killian's spine like an electric pulse.

Emma nearly shrinks into her seat and he takes her hand. “It’s alright, love. Breathe.” She looks up at him and tries to smile, but she merely looks tense. “I’m not going anywhere. Unless you tell me to go.”

She shakes her head and looks back at Elsa.

The doctor is still smiling her warm smile and nods. “Then he’s welcome. But since I am getting as complete a medical history as I can from you, you might want to have him wait outside until it’s time to look at the baby.”

Emma flinches hard at that. She nearly recoils, and he laces his fingers through hers. Holds on tightly.

“I can wait outside, love. You can just tell me when to come back in.”

“No,” Emma shakes her head. “You can stay.” She looks at him with huge, anxious eyes, and whispers, “stay.”

He squeezes her fingers. And can’t find his voice. The fact that she is willing to share something this private is devastating in its sincerity. There is nothing he could possibly reply to that, so he holds her gaze and nods.

Elsa leans back and studies them both. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Emma looks up and her voice is quiet, but steady. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Elsa says, and then she begins.

 

They go through her background first, and Emma cannot answer most of the questions, because she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know her family, so she has no information on their medical history, hereditary diseases or conditions. Her entire experience with the medical profession have been two visits to an urgent care center when she was a teenager: once for a broken arm, and once for a dislocated shoulder. She has never had a physical. She has never had bloodwork done. She has never even been to the dentist.

Elsa remains unfazed while Killian holds Emma’s hand more and more tightly with each revelation; she makes notes and keeps nodding and finally draws blood.

“We’ll need a complete work-up for you,” she says. “And after we’re done here, you should go to administration. See what programs and payment plans apply to you. We will find something which will allow you to have medical care during this time, and for me to remain your physician, should you want to continue with me.”

 

Killian wants to offer his help with the bills. Wants Emma not to worry about money right now, not when she’s still finding her feet along this jumbled new path she is walking. But he knows this is not the right moment, that none of this moment is about him, and he bites his tongue until it goes numb.

And stays quiet.

Emma’s hand must be sore from his constant squeezes.

 

“Now, on to your pregnancy.” Elsa pulls out another form as Emma flinches again. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“Thirteen weeks. I think.” Emma’s voice has not gotten steadier through the whole process. She looks even more withdrawn now than she did during the initial questions. It makes him worry that this visit is causing her too much stress.

Elsa smiles again. “We’ll try to narrow it down. Any nausea?”

“Lots, at first, mostly during the night. But it stopped a few days ago.”

“Unusual cravings? Sensitivity to smell?”

“No _unusual_ cravings,” Emma smiles for the first time. Killian breathes a sigh of relief. She's still in there. 

“I have been going absolutely nuts for grilled cheese sandwiches,” she says. “I've always loved them, I just--- love them so much more now. Smells--” she scrunches her nose as she reflects, “some smells were kind of weirdly intense in the beginning. Once or twice they made me throw up. But that was weeks ago.”

Elsa nods. “Libido?”

Emma sputters. “What?”

“From what I can tell you are either on the cusp or already in your second trimester. Most women’s libido kicks into overdrive at that time.”

Emma blushes fire engine red, and Killian can feel the same heat rise in his cheeks. He can’t look at her.

“Yes,” Emma finally admits. And squeezes his hand for a change. Hard.

“Well then.” Elsa gets up. “Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”

 

They go into the examination room, and Killian doesn’t know where to stand. When Emma lies down on the exam table and pulls up her shirt, Killian doesn’t know where to look. He feels like a foreign object, until Emma smiles and waves him over and Elsa points to a chair next to her. He sits down, and realizes that his hands are sweaty.

 

Then he looks up and sees that there is a much more defined swell to Emma’s belly.

How could it have grown so much in a week?

Emma herself looks surprised by it, and then hisses as cold blue gel meets her skin.

 

And then Killian hears a fetal heartbeat for the very first time in his life.

And it is both amazing and absolutely terrifying. He takes Emma’s hand again, and this time she holds on more tightly than he does.

And then Elsa points at the monitor and there is a  _body_ . With a head and arms and legs. And it’s  _moving_ .

Emma’s grip on his hand tightens to the point of pain, and when he looks at her, there are tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. His breath catches.

This is so far outside his experience, so foreign and alien and  _real_ , that he can’t even tell what he is feeling. At all. This is so much bigger than he is.

Than they are.

 

“From what I can tell,” Elsa says softly, “you are closer to sixteen weeks. Although I can’t make out the gender yet.”

Emma doesn’t react, just keeps staring at the monitor, tears still slowly rolling down her face. Her hand still clutching Killian’s for dear life.

“I don’t know what to say.” Emma's voice is so soft that Killian can hardly hear it. But he understands.

Words have deserted him as well, completely.

He can feel his brain shutting down between the influx of information and the chaos of foreign emotions. This is so _much_ to take in. And it must be so much worse for Emma. He starts to rub her arm in comfort, because he can hear her breathe, and it’s shallow and fast.

 

“You don’t have to say anything. I know this can be overwhelming.” Elsa pushes a button on the monitor and the image freezes; then she hands Emma a wad of paper towels to wipe up the gel.

Then she gets up. “Why don't I give you two a moment.” She walks over to the door. “Just come out whenever you're ready. Take all the time you need.”

 

Emma's eyes are fixed on the screen. Her tears have not slowed. She just lies there, staring, and he can't think of anything to say. He keeps rubbing her arm, because it's the only comfort he can offer.

When Emma finally speaks, her voice is still a whisper. “Look at this.”

She turns to face him and her eyes are full of terrified awe.

He shakes his head to clear it, and takes a deep breath, because this,  _this_ is the moment. 

 

This will split his life into a before and an after.

 

“Emma.” His voice cuts out and he clears his throat and starts again. “I know this is overwhelming and frightening and just---- so much. But I want you to know...” She looks at him with large, shining eyes, full of apprehension, and suddenly it's not hard at all to go on. Suddenly it's the easiest thing he has ever done.

“I want you to know that you are not alone.” He takes her hand again, twines her fingers in his, lifts it up to his own heart and holds it there. “I am here, with you. We can do this together.”

The smile she gives him in return is brilliant and beautiful and it warms him down to his toes. It's the kind of smile people remember for the rest of their lives.

He will.

 

Oh, he's definitely in it now.

And he doesn’t mind at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my muse really loves to play in dark corners.  
> But there is some light at the end of this tunnel now.


	5. Chapter 5

The owner of the white Ford checks his phone and grimaces. Then he types another message.

_Not yet. Can’t get her alone._

It’s the same message he has been sending the past few days, and he’s getting impatient. His employer is getting impatient. He growls in frustration and goes back to watching the sliding glass doors of the clinic.

 

 

 

When they exit the hospital Emma feels a thousand pounds lighter. Killian next to her is actually whistling. On a lark she folds her hand into his, holds it as they walk – for all the world to see.

He doesn’t look at her, but he holds her hand back, and the left corner of his mouth quirks up.

 

That’s how they arrive at the diner.

And of course that's where everything falls apart.

 

It happens as they open the door.

A jolt goes through Killian and he stops dead in his tracks. When Emma looks back at him, he has gone pale. His eyes are riveted to a point over her right shoulder.

So she turns around. And sees. A booth with four occupants.

A tall man with close-cropped dark hair is in the process of getting up. Next to him is a woman, laughing. On her lap is an infant. And a blond man with his back to them is starting to turn his head.

 

Killian is rooted to the spot as the diner door closes softly behind him. He’s staring at the dark-haired man as if they were the only two people in the room.

The man simply nods at him and says, “Killian.” It’s quiet, and yet Emma can feel the reaction ripple through Killian. Tension pulls back his shoulders until his whole body feels brittle and taut. Emma tries to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he won’t let her. If anything, his grip becomes tighter.

It matches his voice when he starts to speak. “Liam,” he says. Just that one word. But it seems to carry unspeakable weight.

 

So this is Liam.

 

When Killian starts to walk over to the table, he just pulls her along with him.

The woman looks at Killian with a smile and sparkling eyes and also says “Killian!” but it’s in an entirely different tone of voice. She is happy to see him. Her smile is lovely and welcoming. When Killian looks at her, his face changes to match her warm smile. He even waves at the boy on her knee, before his gaze once again locks with his brother’s.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is not welcoming. It is _GoAway_ in a nutshell. Emma tries to extricate her hand one more time, but Killian’s grip has turned to iron.

Liam raises an eyebrow. “I called Ed and he said you've been here a week. Started your new job. So I thought we’d come down to see you.”

There is a wealth of accusation in that statement. The subtext between the brothers is so loud, it might as well run as closed captioning.

 

The woman breaks the tension. “Liam,” she says, “please sit down. And Killian, I’m so happy to see you. I’ve been telling Dylan all about you.” With that she lifts the child off her lap and holds him out to Killian. The boy opens his arms and the tension in Killian’s body melts away. He looks at Emma and squeezes her hand before he lets it go and then crouches. His smile is genuine as he says, “hi, Wendy, I missed you.”

And then holds out his finger. The newly-introduced Dylan grabs it immediately and then gurgles and smiles; and Killian’s voice goes soft as he says, “so you’re Dylan then, are you? How are you, my boy?”

Then he winks and the boy sputters a laugh and Emma’s chest tightens as something warm and wonderful tugs at her insides. Killian reaches out and picks up his nephew as if he’d never done anything but hold children his entire life and Emma can’t breathe for a second.

He turns to her with the child on his hip and leans over. “Look, Dylan, this is Emma,” he says. Then he looks at her, and again her breath catches. “Emma,” he says, “meet my nephew.”

Emma freezes on the spot like a deer caught in headlights.

Panic now spreads up her spine and all she can think is,  _PleaseDon’tMakeMeHoldHim_ .

She forces a smile and grinds out “nice to meet you”, and Killian’s eyes scan her face like he’s tracking something elusive. He makes no move to hand her the child.

Instead he leans over and whispers into her ear, “please don’t go.”

 

How did he know Emma was about to bolt?

But there is no way she is leaving now.

 

She nods at him, and suddenly lots of things happen. Killian hands his nephew back to his mother; and Liam sits down; and the blond man starts to get up, but Liam tells him to stay; and Wendy asks Killian and Emma to please sit and join them; and then Ruby shows up with a tray full of plates.

Killian pulls up a chair for Emma and sits down next to the blond man, who introduces himself as David – the local chief of police and a college friend of Wendy’s – and Emma sits down awkwardly at the head of the table as Ruby hands out plates. Ruby pats Emma on the shoulder before she leaves and Killian’s hand settles on her knee.

“Emma,” he says, and it sounds like he’s girding himself for battle. “This is my brother Liam and his wife Wendy. And you just met Dylan. Liam, Wendy, and… David, was it?” the blond man nods, “this is Emma.”

The way he says Emma feels like a hug. She wants to wrap it around herself like armor.

Then she nods at the table’s occupants and does a little wave. Wendy beams at her. David nods and smiles.

Liam looks her up and down like he’s checking for holes in a second-hand coat.

 

And then he dives right into it.

“So, Killian, I went down to the harbor earlier, only to find out you weren’t at work today.” A high-profile prosecutor could not have put more accusation into that sentence. Killian’s hand on her knee tightens.

“It’s the off season.” Killian manages to keep his voice steady, but Emma can hear anger vibrate beneath it. “There’s not much to do, and I can make my own hours.”

“You thought it best to start off a new job by playing hooky?”

Killian’s hand on her knee tightens to a near painful squeeze. Emma lays her hand on top of his, rubs her thumb slowly across his knuckles. Killian’s grip lessens a fraction.

“Nobody says hooky, Liam.” The undercurrent of anger is rapidly rising. “What are you, twelve? And although I don’t owe you an explanation, Emma had a doctor’s appointment and I chose to go with her.”

The way he says ‘chose’ is an open invitation for Liam to pounce. Which he does.

“I’d love to have the kind of job where I can just choose to take a day off.”

Killian smiles, and it looks lethal. “Quit the Navy. Become the harbor master of a small tourist town. You’ll be able to take off all the days you want between late October and early April.”

“This is what I get for getting you a job?” Liam leans forward, and there is menace in his bearing. “Attitude? From _you_?” He spits the last part as if Killian weren’t worthy to be dragged along the soles of his shoes.

“I never asked you to get me a job,” Killian replies, and the anger has finally bubbled all the way to the top. “And if memory serves, all you did was give me Ed’s number. I interviewed for it. Twice. And got it on my merits.”

Liam draws breath, but his wife lays a hand on his arm. “Liam, stop it,” she says. “This is not why we’re here.” She turns to Killian and Emma. “It’s very nice to meet you, Emma. How did you two meet?”

 

From out of the corner of her eyes Emma can see Killian start to answer, and she just knows he is going to be chivalrous and prevaricate. For her. But she doesn’t want to hide, and she doesn’t want Killian to have to bend the truth on her behalf, so she squares her shoulders, and answers before Killian speaks.

“I hitched a ride with him, back in Tallahassee. So I guess we met on the side of a road.” Under the table she squeezes Killian’s hand. He squeezes her knee back. Then she smiles at Liam and thinks, _bring it_.

 

Liam does not disappoint. “ _What?_ ” He seems to grow in size, the way he straightens up and puffs out his chest, like a bird ruffling its feathers. His next words are directed at Killian, not Emma, whom he spares not a glance.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Killian?” His voice could easily cut glass. “It’s not enough that you get yourself kicked out of the Navy because you have less impulse control than my _son_ , no– the first thing you do is go out and hook up with a transient?” It’s painfully clear that he doesn’t mean ‘transient’. He means _gutter trash_.

“Just you wait,” he goes on, his voice brimming with disdain, “a few weeks from now she’ll claim you knocked her up and you’ll be paying child support for the rest of your life. And be well and truly _screwed_.”

 

Wendy’s breath catches and she hisses, “ _Liam!_ ”

Emma’s whole body snaps taut like a wire. That last poison arrow Liam shot hit her square in the chest.

David looks like he wants to disappear into the back rest of the booth. Emma feels bad for him for the briefest of moments, because if she’s mortified – and she is -- it must be so much worse for him. He looks like a nice guy, except for the stunned expression on his face; the kind of expression a person can get when they just wanted to spend some time with friends and instead suddenly find themselves stuck in a Lifetime Family Drama.

 

The muscles in Killian’s jaw jump and his hand folds around Emma’s. He turns to her and gives her a small smile for comfort and then looks back at Liam; and even in profile Emma can hardly believe the way his face changes. It’s suddenly made of granite and steel.

“Liam,” his voice is quiet and dangerous, “insult me all you want. All day, every day, to your heart’s content. I never get tired of you expounding upon what a disappointment I am.” Killian’s voice drops even lower, and menace starts to drip from every word like blood from an open wound. “But if you ever say anything derogatory about Emma again, anything at all, I will not speak to you again. For the rest of my life. Is that clear?”

 

He is deadly serious. This is not a bluff. Emma shudders.

 

Then he stands and pulls Emma up with him. His smile turns cordial but genuine as he nods at David. 

“I am so sorry for my part in this uncomfortable situation. I’m sure you were looking forward to a friendly meal. I’m afraid I may have ruined that, but I will come see you at the station later this week, if that’s OK? I’ve been meaning to stop by and get to know the local police force.”

David manages a smile. “Please do. Happy to meet you.”

Liam seems to have gathered his wits again and cuts in, “oh please, Killian, stop the dramatics and sit down already. Nobody cares. You’re acting like a spoiled child. We can just---”

Killian looks at him and Liam breaks off halfway through his tirade. Emma can’t see Killian’s face, but Liam actually blanches.

 

Then Killian looks at Wendy and Dylan and his face becomes wistful, and not a little sad. He bends over and kisses Wendy on the cheek. “I am so sorry, love. But it’s best to leave now, before I say something I cannot take back. Take care, OK?” He runs his knuckles down Dylan’s cheek. “You be good to your mother, hear me?”

Then he straightens back up. “Liam, I wish I could say this was a pleasure. But we both know what this was, so let’s not pretend. Have a safe trip home.”

And with that he turns and leaves the diner towards the back staircase, dragging Emma behind him.

 

 

In Emma’s room Killian collapses into the arm chair and pulls Emma down on his lap. His breath comes in stuttering gasps, and his eyes are squeezed shut. Emma runs a hand up the back of his neck, massaging his scalp. Her other hand rubs up and down the arm that is wrapped tightly around her waist.

They stay like that for minutes, before she gathers herself and quietly says, “I’m so sorry.”

His eyes snap open.

“Emma.” His voice is unsteady. “Please don’t. This is not--- none of this is your fault.”

“I can’t help feeling I started it. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“You told the truth. That’s not--- that’s never the wrong thing to do.” He sighs. “It’s a good thing you did. I wasn’t going to. And I would have been wrong not to.”

“But I caused a rift between you.”

He laughs. It is bitterness made sound. “Love, that wasn’t you. That rift started a long time ago. You had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.”

 

But the fight is not the only reason Emma is sorry. And the other reason weighs more.

“I almost left,” she whispers. “I almost left you with them, with him. I’ve done nothing but lean on you since we fucking _met_ , and then--- and then----” She has to take a deep breath. “And then you had to ask me to stay. I’m the worst person ever.” Hormones have nothing to do with her eyes getting wet. Emma is well and truly ashamed.

“Oh, love,” he says, and then they both hear a voice hesitantly calling “Killian?” from the hallway. It sounds like Wendy.

“Number 8,” Killian calls out. “Come on in!”

 

The door opens slowly, and it is Wendy who enters, Dylan on her hip, her eyes large and sad.

“So,” she says, shaking her head, “that went well.”

Killian makes no move to get up, nor to displace Emma from his lap, but he motions for Wendy to take a seat on the bed. She sits on the edge and lets Dylan go; and they all watch as the boy starts to chew on a fold of the comforter.

Killian’s hand moves from her waist and settles on Emma’s belly. It is a completely unconscious gesture. It’s not until he hears Emma’s sharp intake of breath that his gaze snaps to hers. He starts to pull back immediately, but Emma stays his hand, and the look in his eyes becomes soft and he smiles.

 

“How far along are you?” Wendy’s eyes are on Killian’s hand.

“Sixteen weeks,” he answers, “and before you ask, I met Emma not even ten days ago. You can do the math.”

Wendy nods and Killian shakes his head. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I shouldn’t take my issues with Liam out on you.”

“It’s quite alright,” Wendy’s voice is warm, and free of accusation. “It’s not like I have no experience with the Jones’ brand of stubbornness.” She holds up a hand, stops Killian’s reply in its tracks. “Don’t. Today’s mess is all on your brother, and he knows it.”

Killian quirks an eyebrow. Wendy smirks. “Or rather, he will know it. Soon.”

Killian laughs, and then Wendy laughs, and then Emma cracks a grin; and suddenly the air in the room seems much lighter than before.

 

And then Wendy grows serious again. “Please don’t cut us out of your life.” She picks up her son, walks over to them. “I have no desire for this one to grow up without a fun uncle.” And in one fell swoop she deposits the boy on Emma’s lap.

Emma goes stiff as a board. She feels as if she would honestly be more comfortable with a live grenade in his place. Whereas Killian reaches out immediately, and tickles his belly. The boy gurgles happily and raises his arms and then falls against Emma’s own belly, laughing.

Emma is still wishing for a live grenade. Seriously.

 

Wendy crouches down next to her and takes her hand.

“This a bit much for you?” She asks gently. Emma can’t even look at her. All she can do is nod. “Don’t worry about it.” Wendy sounds calm and assured. “It’s alright to be apprehensive. But that’ll change with your own little one, you’ll see.”

Emma can’t breathe. The small human on her lap is blowing spit bubbles and smiling at Killian, holding his finger.

“And Killian is a good man,” Wendy continues. “I can see that neither one of you planned any of this, but--” she picks up her son and swings him back onto her hip—“that does not mean it was not meant to be. Do yourselves a favor.” She looks at both in earnest. “Don’t let anyone tell you what you ought to be. In life, and to each other. You get to decide that. Nobody else. Just you.”

 

Try as she might, Emma can’t hold back her goddamn tears,  _again_ . Killian buries his nose in her hair, and from the way he is breathing she can tell he’s just as moved by this as she is.

“Also,” Wendy winks at Emma, “there is absolutely no winning against hormones, so cry all you want. You on the other hand,” she points her chin at Killian, “have no excuse. Other than being the sap that you are.”

Killian barks a laugh, and so does Emma, and she suddenly feels loose and buoyant and---  _happy_ .

Killian’s hand settles back on her belly, and it feels good there, and right. Like it belongs.

 

“Thank you so much.” Emma cannot put into words how grateful she is, so she leaves it at that, and hopes the look she gives Wendy conveys enough. Killian echoes “thank you” in a husky voice, and Wendy turns to go.

“We’ll head back now,” she says, turning in the doorway. “But I’m expecting you both for Thanksgiving dinner. No excuses. Is that understood?”

Killian nods.

“That’s an order, lieutenant.”

He smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she says. “It was lovely to meet you, Emma. You both take care and we’ll see you soon.”

She closes the door softly behind her.

 

 

 

“So…..” Emma breaks the silence long moments later. “I’m thinking there is a whole lot of backstory I might be missing here.”

Killian grins at her. “Just a tad. Not nearly enough to fill a Greek Tragedy.”

“How boring. And here I was hoping Euripides himself could have borrowed your plot.” He laughs out loud and then his eyes turn thoughtful.

“Did you finish high school, love?”

Emma shakes her head no.

“And yet you throw Euripides around like it's part of casual conversation?”

“Let’s just say that the reason I didn’t finish had nothing to do with my grades,” she says. “And you’re a clever one, trying to avoid the subject. Which you can’t.”

She gets up and pulls Killian with her. Walks over to the bed and pushes him down, until they are both lying on top of the blankets, facing each other.

 

“Now that we’re more comfortable, Mr. Jones---“ she smirks at him, “do you think you may want to talk to me?” Her eyes grow serious and her voice drops to a whisper. “It might help.”

 

“There’s really not much to tell,” he sighs. “Our mother died when I was very young, and my father did not take it well. He managed to drink himself to death a few short years later.”

Emma puts her hand on his side, but his breathing is calm and measured. This is not a bleeding wound, not anymore.

“Liam was almost eighteen when he died, so he got custody of me. I was thirteen and angry and Liam was totally unprepared for the kind of resentment I dished up. He really did his best, and I owe him. So much.” He sighs again, and Emma tightens her hand on his hip. “But somehow our relationship changed from brothers to--- well, more like father and son. And it stayed that way even after I grew up. Even after I joined the Navy. He could never let go of that, and I guess at some point this became a real problem.”

His hand wanders down her arm, folds into hers.

“So you see, this rift has been decades in the making. He thinks he has to keep taking care of me, and he resents me for it. I think he still sees me as the thirteen-year-old fuck up, and I resent him for it. And getting cashiered didn’t help. It just confirmed all his suspicions.”

 

He exhales, long and exhausted. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I want to.” He looks tired and worn and hopeless, and Emma moves on instinct.

 

She leans forward to kiss him, slow and soft and tender. Because she wants to. And she  _means_ it. He responds in kind, languid and warm and unhurried. His hand wraps into her hair, pulls her closer, and she goes willingly.

When they break apart, his eyes are wide and dark, and she smiles.

“I know it's not time, yet,” she whispers. “Not for either one of us. Not yet. But soon.”

His smile may be the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

“Now turn around.”

He looks at her in confusion as she sits up and starts to draw the blanket out from under them. When she sees his questioning eyes, she grins.

“It's your turn for some comfort,” she says softly, and pushes back on his shoulder until he lies down with his back to her.

She wraps herself around him for a change, pulls up the covers and kisses the back of his neck.

“Go to sleep,” she says. “The answers will come in time.”

 

She doesn't know what makes her so sure.

But she knows she is right.

 

She wraps her arm around his middle, and he takes her hand, and that's how they fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

 _Nothing?_ Says the message.

 _Not a chance._ He texts back. _Not like this._

 _Fine._ Comes the reply. _Then it's time for Plan B._

_Will take a little while to set up._

_Do what you have to._

The man smirks and turns over the ignition and the decrepit white Ford makes its way out of Storybrooke. But it doesn't go far.

 

 

 

 

“Tell me you were not going to lift that.”

Emma looks up, biting her lip; but all he can see is her hand, wrapped around the handle of the heavy mop bucket in front of her, filled to the brim with dirty water.

“No, don't worry,” she says, and starts to roll the bucket, “there's a drain in the back.”

 

It is three weeks later. Halloween has come and gone, Ruby has returned to New York, and the last of the tourists have left Storybrooke. The town has changed; its pace even slower, now that the residents are back out. They have had a wonderfully relaxed, leisurely time; with Killian spending his days at the diner and his nights wrapped around Emma, kissing and cuddling and taking their time.

It's a lovely new experience, not having to rush, although waking up is getting harder. And _harder_.

 

“Here, let me help you.”

Emma straightens up and gives him a pointed look. She has a definite bump now, her T-shirt stretched across her middle, and her expression is firm. “I can tip over a bucket myself.”

He bites down on the grin threatening to split his face, because she's formidable when riled up like that, and that's half of the reason he does it.

She bends down towards the bucket and then suddenly goes, “oh.”

 

He's by her side in an instant. When she straightens up there's an odd expression on her face; but she doesn't seem to be in pain. It's more of a figuring look.

Then a small shudder goes through her and again she says, “oh!”, and starts to rub a spot on her side. When she turns to look at him her eyes are wide, and full of wonder.

“I just felt a kick,” she whispers.

His breath catches. “For the first time?”

“I've felt flutters before,” she says. “But nothing like this.” Her smile is wide, and she pulls his hand towards her belly. “Here,” she says. “Maybe he'll do it again.”

He raises an eyebrow. “He?”

“I just have a feeling,” she answers. “That first time I saw the monitor, I just got this feeling that it was a boy.” She looks down. “I know it's silly, but---”

And then he feels it. It's slight and tenuous, but it's there.

Life.

 

“Killian,” she says, and it's a tone of voice he has not heard before. She is looking straight at him, eyes still full of wonder--- and something else altogether. Something hungry. “Killian, it's time.”

“Time for what, love?”

She just looks at him, as if he is being very, very stupid. And then she launches herself at him, her lips crashing down on his, her hand fisting into his hair, and she kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until his brain catches up to what is happening.  
Oh, he is so very, very stupid.

 

He pulls back, and he wants to ask if she's sure, but the look she gives him removes all doubt.

 

Then he picks her up and her legs wrap around his waist; and he stumbles them all the way up the stairs and down the hallway and into her room. He puts her down on the bed and she leans back in invitation and _god_ \--- he has never been so ready.

 

Her hair is tangled and her lips are so red and her eyes are so dark and she just smiles at him, waiting.

With a growl he pushes her up towards the headboard and lies down beside her. He runs his hand over her swollen breasts, teasing the nipples until she moans and writhes and pulls him in for another blistering kiss.

His hand wanders down the swell of her belly and then cups her mound and her back arches up.

She's as ready as he is. More, even.

 

She sits up and he pulls off her T-shirt and he has to stop for a moment, because she looks so, so beautiful.

But then her hands grip the hem of his sweater and the rest of their clothes come off in record time, and her fingers run up his spine, and her mouth trails down his neck, finding his pulse point and biting down hard, and he groans and has to grip the pillow for dear life.

 

His fingers start to tease inside her, and god – she's so so _so_ ready.

She bites his earlobe, stutters “please, Killian, _please_ ”, and he enters her in one swift motion.  
And nearly loses it right then and there.

He has wanted this for such a long time.

 

Her legs wrap around him and pull, and _pull;_ as he finds a rhythm, as she matches his thrusts, as she pulls him in tighter and higher and higher; and she bites down on her fist as her back arches off the mattress; and she swallows her scream, her eyes closed, her mouth open; and right there, right there, _right there_ \----

He lets go.

It hits him like a ton of bricks, white light explodes behind his eyes, and he has never, he has never...

 

When he comes back to himself, he's draped halfway across her, boneless and sated and thoroughly spent.

And happy.

Just. Happy.

 

She looks up at him, disheveled and oh so lovely and just as spent as he is. And smiles. “Oh, we are doing that again.”

“As soon as humanly possible.” He slides to her side and starts to rub her belly. “Was it OK? I wasn't too heavy?”

“You were perfect.” Her eyes are shining, and then her grin turns wicked. “And there are so many more things we can try.”

He knows he is not eighteen anymore, but he swears he can feel parts of him try to twitch again.

“We definitely, _definitely_ will. Try everything. Preferably on every available surface.”

She smiles. “I'm so glad we agree.” Then she shudders. The room is chilly and they're both cooling fast.

He pulls the covers up over them both and then they just lie there – their legs tangled, their fingertips slowly whispering across warm, naked skin.

A feeling of contentment such as he has never known spreads warm through his chest, and he realizes right then and there that he is falling in love.

 

 

 

The next morning they are late coming down to Granny's, and she holds out the phone to him as Emma puts on her apron.

“Someone on the line for you,” she says, trying to sound disapproving, but failing. He knows the feeling. No one, _no one_ could possibly look at Emma's shining face and disapprove. Not even Granny.

 

Emma is in the middle of making cappucinos when he returns to the counter and hands Granny the phone.

“I have to go down to the harbor,” he says. “Seems there is a dispute over moorings. Last night a boat with no slip permit came in and just dropped anchor, so I have to get some actual work done.”

“That's a shame,” Emma says, licking her bottom lip. She has the definite potential to be the death of him someday.

Granny rolls her eyes. “Shoo,” she waves at Killian. “Go and get. Maybe that way we can _all_ get some work done.”

 

 

It takes him most of the day to sort everyone out.

When he returns to the diner it is past 5 pm and darkness has fallen. He catches himself whistling as he walks back, and he doesn't even try to hide his smile along the way.

Granny is alone behind the counter when he enters, and this time her look is definitely disapproving.

“Listen, bucko,” she says, giving him a stern once-over, “I'm happy you two lovebirds are finally getting along.” There is absolutely no mistaking her meaning, and he has to bite down on his grin. “But that's no reason to blow off an afternoon.”

 

The words sink in slowly. It takes him a minute to catch up to them.

 

“What do you mean?” He finally hears himself asking.

“Your bird went to see you on her lunch break and never came back. And I want to make it perfectly clear---” Granny's voice trails off when she sees Killian's face.

He can't move.

Can't breathe.

Because something is very, very wrong. He can feel it in his bones.

“She never came to see me.”

He leaves Granny's stunned face behind and runs. Through the back, up the staircase, down the hallway, _IWasJustHereLastNight_ , _EmmaInMyArms_ , and then he bursts through her door.

 

The bed is made.

Her clothes are neatly folded in the dresser.

Her bag is half filled with laundry, stored under the desk.

Everything is exactly like they left it that morning.

Exactly.

 

And Emma is gone.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Definitely high time to find out just who the hell is in that white Ford, don't you think?
> 
> (Also - i have no idea where the line between E and M is drawn, so i guess i erred on the side of caution.)
> 
>  
> 
> Oh - and i'm ThisOneSatellite over at tumblr, if you want to come and say hi.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to state for the record that i know NOTHING about police procedures, other than what reading and watching movies and rudimentary research for this chapter have taught me.  
> Any and all mistakes are entirely my own.

 

He can hear Granny panting behind him, but he doesn't turn around.

“Killian,” she wheezes, “let's not panic. She probably just---”

“Just what?” He doesn't recognize his own voice. “Took a stroll for four hours?” He points at her coat, hanging over the back of the desk chair. “In November? Without her jacket?” He walks over, pats the pockets, lifts leather from the left one. “Without her wallet?”

He turns and a part of him notices Granny flinch, as if from far, far away.

“Call David. Call him right now.”

Granny just nods and turns to leave.

 

Killian looks around the room and forces himself to take a deep breath. And another.

And another.

He closes his eyes and lets the Navy Lieutenant come forward, dredges him up from the deep and gives him the reins.

 

_Focus._

_Prioritize._

_Separate fact from conjecture._

_Truth from hypothesis._

_This is no time for fear._

_No time for failure._

 

He opens his eyes and looks around again.

When David enters, Granny in tow, Killian is in full control of his faculties. The fact that his soul is wailing is locked clean away in a separate compartment, one which he will not open.

At any cost.

David looks around the room as well, before his eyes come to rest on Killian; worried, but professional. “Tell me what happened.”

 

Killian has gotten to know David in the last few weeks, and he likes him. David is partial to both Granny's onion rings as well as her cherry pie, and has come into the diner for some combination of each without fail almost every day. He is warm and generous and funny, and Killian has spent more than a few hours trading war stories with him. Several of those times they were joined by his wife Mary Margaret, who teaches third grade at the local school, and is just as warm and generous and funny as her husband. Killian and Emma like them both immensely.

But at the moment Killian doesn't need a friend. He needs a cop.

 

“All I know is that Granny said that Emma wanted to come see me and she never showed up and now she is gone.” Killian can hear the beginnings of panic in his own voice and bites down on it, hard.

David looks at him and says calmly, “we'll get to Granny in a moment. Tell me about your day, just yours.”

“We came down to the diner this morning,” he answers, forcing his voice back to neutral. “We were a little late for Emma's shift.” He will not let himself think about what he and Emma did only that morning, he will _not_. “Granny handed me the phone, said I was needed down at the harbor.”

David's brow furrows. “Someone called for you at the diner? They knew you would be there?”

Killian sighs. “I put her number on the sign at my office door. Since my room is here and reception in this town is spotty.” He pulls out his cell phone, and points to the letters 'NO SERVICE'.

David nods and his brows relax. “That makes sense. I carry a walkie for that very reason.” He pats his side. “Then what happened?”

“I went down to the harbor to straighten out two people in a hot dispute over slip payment and perceived hull damage.”

David's face scrunches. “Slip disputes? Here? In the off season? Were they locals?”

“Now that you mention it,” Killian says slowly, “I don't think either one of them were. They looked like new money from down the coast; or at least their boats did. Stink pots the both of them – motorized yachts with expensive gadgets and way too much room. The kind of boats millionaires buy to impress women. One of them claimed the other had scraped his boat while mooring. The other one said he never even got near it. And he also didn't want to pay for the slip, because he had arrived during business hours and found no harbor master in attendance; said that negated the mooring fee. Each one looked like they could buy out the harbor several times over, but they fought over nickles and dimes like their livelihood depended on it. Demanded a thorough inspection of each other's vessel, with which I complied. Made me check potential damage and fill out lots of reports. Threatened me and each other with lawyers. Made long phone calls. Argued like spoiled children.”

“So in other words, they kept you busy for hours.”

Killian's head snaps up. “Do you think that was on purpose?”

David shrugs. “I think it is suggestive. At the very least. Do you have their names?”

“I do. Their names and those of their boats – it's all down at my office.”

“We'll go get them in a minute. First tell me the rest.”

“There is no rest!” Killian can hear his voice rising, takes a deep breath. _Come on, Lieutenant. You can do this._ “There is nothing else, not really,” he tries again, calmer this time. “Once I finally sorted them out and both of them left, I came back here. Granny said Emma had gone to see me at lunch. But she never showed up. So I came up here---” he shudders, “and she was gone.” His voice breaks on the last word.

David puts a hand on his shoulder and it takes all his willpower not to shrug it away. The man is trying to help.

“And nothing up here is missing? Or different?”

“No.” Killian sighs. “It's just as we left it. All her things are here. Her coat,” he points at the chair and then holds up his hand, “and her wallet – all here. There is no way she left on her own accord. Not without them.”

David nods again. “Have you checked the bathroom?”

He hasn't, but when they go and look, it is just as complete as the bedroom. Both toothbrushes are there, as is the shampoo in the shower and Emma's small make-up bag on the sink. Nothing has been disturbed.

 

“Alright,” David says when they come back to the main room. “Now, Granny, tell me what happened at the diner.”

“Nothing,” Granny replies, and gives a helpless shrug. Killian hardly recognizes the formidable woman who tried to bully him on his first day in town. She looks small now, and suddenly much older than before. “We're not so busy these days, so I let her go to lunch early. She's usually not on break until after two, but things were quiet, so I told her she could go right past one. She took the trash on her way out and that's the last time I saw her.”

“So she went out the back door?” David asks. “Not the front?”

“I guess so,” Granny answers. “I got a group of three right as she was leaving, and almost called her back. But they only wanted coffee, so I let her go and got busy making lattes. I didn't see her after she took out the trash. I thought she'd left.”

“Then let's look out back.” With that David leads the three of them outside.

 

The dumpster is open, one recent-looking trash bag at the top.

And another one beside it. But this one is busted open. Ripped packaging and used takeout containers and empty cans are spilled all across the back alley. Killian's breath catches in his throat and he has to hold on to the dumpster for support.

“Now this looks like a struggle,” David murmurs, and Killian's knees go weak.

He had known something was wrong, had known it in his gut the moment Granny had started to scold him, but this, this....

 

He can feel his hands start to shake.

This is real.

And Emma is not just gone. She has been _taken_.

Panic crawls up his spine; pure, unadulterated fear; and the Navy Lieutenant vanishes into thin air. What's left in his wake is just Killian, scared and anxious and of no help to anyone.

All he can hear is a high-pitched whine that seems to come from inside his own mind.

All he can see is Emma's smile from this morning, as she winked at him and waved him good-bye.

All he can think is, _please_.

Nothing else. Just, _please_.

He doesn't even know what exactly he is asking for.

 

“Hey.” A hand grabs his bicep and squeezes, hard. He lifts his eyes and David comes into focus, his expression worried as he grips his arm tightly. Killian gets the impression that David has been talking for a while.

“I said,” David's voice is slow and his enunciation very, very clear; and Killian would love to tell him he's not hard of hearing, but he can't find his voice. “I _said_ , let's go down to the harbor and get those names from your office. OK?”

Killian can only nod.

“Go back to your diner, Granny,” David continues, “I'll call you if I need anything.”

Granny pats Killian's shoulder before she leaves them in the alleyway. He can hardly feel it. He can hardly feel anything.

 

David turns to walk to his cruiser and it's only then that Killian's brain slots back into place.

“Wait!” He calls out. “Isn't there something we should do here? Check for evidence, or tire treads, or fingerprints or whatever?”

David looks at him with empathy. “This is not a TV drama,” he says gently. “First of all, it's not like I have a whole crime scene unit and lab at my disposal. I have a grumpy deputy and an intern who helps with the phones and the files twice a week.” Killian looks up, dumbstruck. “But even if I did, please don't think the kind of evidence procedures you see on TV are realistic. Or feasible. I was a cop in Boston for years, and we had top of the line crime scene investigation there, and let me tell you, cop procedurals are a far, far cry from the truth. We had a lab tech who actually spent his evenings combing cop shows for mistakes. Made his way through most of the CSIs and wrote letters detailing every flaw in every episode. Actually mailed each one to the producers.” A small grin escapes David, which falls as soon as he looks back at Killian's shellshocked face. “Sorry. Sidetracked. What I'm trying to tell you is that I do know how evidence gathering works, and there is nothing to gather here. There are no cameras covering the streets. And as you may have noticed, it has been raining all afternoon. It stopped just as I got here.”

Killian slowly looks up at the sky. He can vaguely recall that a drizzle had started while he had been arguing with the two yacht owners, which had forced them all into his office.

“Whatever tire tracks were here – and it's a concrete road, so there wasn't going to be much in the first place – they are long gone by now. As is everything else.” He nods at Killian, pats him on the shoulder again. This time Killian does not have the urge to shrug. “So what do you say we go down to your office?”

Killian wordlessly follows him to his car.

 

 

 

 

 

Pain.

Her head is one big, throbbing source of pain. It starts out dull at the base of her skull and then wraps around her temples to become piercing spikes behind her eye sockets.

Emma groans.

Icy water hits her like a slap in the face and she sputters. Her eyes snap open.

“So you're awake now, are ya?” Says a gravelly male voice, completely devoid of inflection.

Emma coughs and sits up.

 

She is in what looks like the main room of a cabin. She is on the bed in the corner. There is a fireplace at one end with two threadbare arm chairs before it, and a tiny kitchenette on the other side. A table with four chairs around it sits in the middle. Three walls have small windows with dirt-covered panes, the last light of day barely filtering through. Everything looks dusty and run-down, like it hasn't been used in years. The mattress underneath her sags, the springs creak as she leans against the headboard. But there is electricity – judging by the bare bulb swinging softly above their heads – and there must be running water, since she just received a load of it square in the face.

A man is in the process of lowering himself onto one of said chairs, facing her. In his hand is an empty glass.

He is on the tall side, with a medium build and a disheveled appearance; his clothes are rumpled and his hair is unkempt. He looks at her as he puts the glass down on the table next to him, his eyes expressionless.

 

“Where am I?” Emma asks.

The man doesn't answer.

She lets a minute pass before she goes on. “OK, then who are you?”

Still no answer, still no expression. He just sits there, studying her like a specimen. When she makes a move to get up, he holds out his hand.

“Stay where you are,” he says coldly. “Or I'll tie you to the bed.”

Emma sinks back down. His voice leaves absolutely no doubt as to the seriousness of his threat. And all things considered, she'd rather not be bound.

“I have to pee,” she mumbles.

The man looks at her sharply, as if trying to divine the status of her bladder, and then points to a door at the far side. “Make it quick.”

Emma enters a small bathroom, little more than a toilet and a shower stall and a sink, with no window at all.

Fuck.

Then again, she does have to pee.

 

When she comes back to the main room, the pain in her head flares up and makes her see stars for a moment, and she has to hold on to the door until her vision clears. The man watches in silence as she takes a few deep breaths and then slowly makes her way back to the bed.

“Did you hit me on the head?”

He nods. “Had to. You were making a goddamn racket.”

She gingerly feels up the back of her neck until she reaches a sizeable lump at the base of her skull. Ah. So that is the source of the pain. She tries to probe it, but the pain explodes and she snatches her hand back. Bits of dried blood flake from her fingers. This man is not kidding around. She vaguely remembers being grabbed in the alley behind Granny's, and trying to fight off her attacker with a bag full of garbage. Of all the useless weapons in the world.

And then – nothing. She has no recollection at all how she ended up here.

Fear starts to crawl up the base of her spine, and she wills it back down. Whatever this is, panic will not help. She will not succumb to it.

 

“Since you won't tell me who you are, nor where I am,” she tries again, and she is proud of how little her voice shakes, “will you at least tell me what we are doing here?”

The man leans back in his chair, still studying her. When he speaks, he sounds almost bored. “Waiting for my boss. Will take a little while.”

“Who is your boss?” Emma doesn't really expect an answer, and doesn't get one.

Her head is now pounding in earnest and so she lies back down, her back to the man. Despite the pain and the dire circumstances, she falls asleep within minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

“So wait – are you saying both of them are fake? Both of them?”

David and Killian are back at the police station, and David is in the process of running names.

“It looks that way,” he says, staring at his computer. “And not just their names. Their boats' names as well.”

“ _What?_ ” Killian stops his frantic pacing and sinks down on the chair in front of David's desk.

“Their drivers license numbers do not exist. Their names do not match either of their social security numbers. As a matter of fact, their social security numbers do not exist. I don't have access to the NVDC--” at Killian's raised eyebrows he elaborates, “the National Vessel Documentation Center, where their boats should be registered. I don't have access to that, but no vessels by either name have dropped or weighed anchor down the northeastern seaboard in the last five years.”

Killian swallows hard. “So, no leads?” He whispers.

“Well, not as such,” David says slowly. “But this is highly suspicious. You see what this looks like, right?”

“That I was lured away. From Emma. On purpose.”

David nods. “And that in itself is a lead.”

 

Killian laughs in exasperation. “Great. Now we really _really_ know she was kidnapped. Which is exactly what we knew before. We don't know why, we don't know by whom, we don't know for what purpose, but hey-- at least we know that it happened.” He is yelling and he doesn't care. Hopelessness is starting to amplify his fear and he cannot stop himself.

“And now we can sit here in the middle of knowing _jack shit_ and drown ourselves in the leads we _don't have_.” David gets up, but Killian is beyond reason. He gets up himself, pushes his chair back so hard it falls over. “So what do you suggest, Mr. Master Detective? Mr. Former Boston Cop? That we send out a search party? That we just drive around in expanding circles? That we see if she left us a trail of _fucking breadcrumbs_? We have _nothing_. _NOTHING!_ ”

“Killian!” David's hands close around his shoulders like a steel vise. “Get a fucking hold of yourself!”

 

It's David's use of an expletive that pierces his fog. He has never heard David curse, not once, in the entire time he has known him.

Killian deflates and sinks down on his knees, his head in his hands. “I'm sorry.”

David crouches before him, patting his arm. “You're no good to Emma if you panic.”

Killian lowers his hands. They feel heavy and foreign and at the base of his skull his head is starting to hurt. “I know.” His voice is back to a whisper. “I just want her back.”

“And you will get her back. Now go home.” David pulls him up. “Go home and get some sleep and let me do my job. I'll call you as soon as I find anything.”

“Do you promise? As soon as you find anything? Anything at all?”

David smiles. “I promise. Now go.”

 

 

 

Killian walks back to the diner in a trance.

When he gets to the alley, he stares at the dumpster for minutes on end; even though Granny must have cleaned up, because the ripped bag and the spilled refuse are all gone.

When he gets upstairs, he can't bear the thought of Emma's empty room, and so he enters his own.

It looks like a room does when it has not been occupied save for the changing of clothes.

The bed is made.

His bag is on it – open, clothes spilling out, strewn around the comforter.

A pile of laundry is in the corner behind the door.

Across it are the few bags and boxes with his belongings; unopened and exactly where he left them after he carried them up from the bed of his truck.

He walks over to the bag on the bed as if pulled by strings, and digs around until he finds his bottle of rum. It's still almost full.

Then he sits down in his own arm chair at the window and stares out at nothing and starts to drink.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Emma wakes up it is dark out and the spare bulb shines drearily above the table.

The man has moved to one of the more comfortable chairs in front of the fire place, but he's still facing her, his eyes half-closed.

Emma closes her eyes and turns to the wall, as if she's going back to sleep, because she has to think.

 

The first thing she notices is that her head feels a little better.

The second thing she does is forbid herself to panic. She repeats _panic will not help you_ until her breathing evens out. For the first time in her life she is grateful for her past.

All those nights in strange new places, with other kids just waiting to steal her few belongings, to rile her up and make merciless fun of her. All the times she spent trying to run away and taking shelter in abandoned buildings and on park benches and under freeway overpasses, trying to steer clear of drunk vagrants pushing shopping carts. All those times in holding cells at various police stations. Even the last place she was shunted to, the red house, and the husband with the bloodshot eyes and the cheap whisky breath who couldn't keep his goddamn hands to himself and has haunted her nightmares ever since. Even the shelter she ended up in at last.

All of these, every single one, have prepared her for this.

This will not break her.

Not now, not when she finally has something to live for. Someone. _Two_ someones.

Her hand moves to her belly, and it gives her an idea.

It's a very long shot, but she has nothing to lose.

 

Emma turns over and groans.

The man looks up. “What?” He sounds displeased and impatient.

She sits up and groans again, rubbing her belly. “I'm overdue for my medication,” she says. “You didn't remember to bring it, did you?”

He leans forward. He is back to scanning her, his eyes sharp and narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Emma takes a deep breath. “I went to see the OB/GYN in Storybrooke, and she told me I'm at risk for several things.” She thinks back to Elsa's office, to the posters on her wall. “Specifically for high blood pressure and gestational diabetes.” She hopes and prays she remembers the last one correctly. It's not like she was paying that much attention to her surroundings at that appointment. But she does remember both of these terms on said posters on the wall. “The doctor gave me medication for each. They're back in my bathroom at Granny's, and--- what time is it?”

“10:35 pm,” the man answers, and it sounds surprised.

“In that case I am way overdue for both.” She rubs her belly again, as if she's in discomfort. She doesn't want to overplay her hand, so she doesn't groan this time.

The man shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “What happens if you don't take them?”

“Any number of things.” Emma is flying by the seat of her pants. “Anything from excessive vomiting to seizures to miscarriage.”

The last one gets his attention and Emma makes a mental note of it. But she can't focus on it now. “So I suggest, whatever you do, that you find a way to get those meds to me. Soon.”

The man frowns. It is his first actual facial expression.

Then he looks at his watch again. “Boss will be here in the morning,” he says, with finality. “Until then, we wait.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the middle of the night and the bottle is half gone.

He can't think of Emma.

He can't not think of Emma.

She is everywhere.

He can hear her laugh and feel her warm body and taste her lips. Her fingertips ghost across his skin. Her hair tickles across his face. Her eyes shine.

He sees her smiling in the cab of his truck and stubborn on a motel couch and exhausted leaning against a tub. Panicking by the side of the road. Grinning across a mountain of whipped cream. Holding her belly as she feels the first kick. Wrapping her legs around him and nearly screaming as she comes.

Filling a hole that has gaped inside him since time immemorial.

Wrapping him up in warmth and understanding, letting him take care of her while she took care of him.

Fighting and clawing for her independence and yet letting him in.

He is good and drunk and ready to admit to the rum and the darkness that he needs her much more than she needs him.

He has spent so many years just existing.

He has lived through the death of his mother and the demise of his father and promised himself to never go down that road. To never let anyone in, no matter what.

To never, ever open himself up to that kind of heartbreak, that kind of pain.

And then Emma came along and blew past all of his defenses and set up residence in his heart, and he let her. He _let_ her.

What will remain of him if she never comes back?

He almost howls at the notion, and takes another sip instead.

Then he gets up on unsteady legs and stumbles his way across the hall to her room. He barely manages to put the bottle on the night stand without tipping it over, and then lets himself fall on the bed, clothes, shoes and all. He buries his head in her pillow, and it does smell of sunshine.

It fucking smells of sunshine.

He curls around it and cries himself to sleep.

 

 

A wet washcloth to his face wakes him up, accompanied by the words, “rise and shine, sweetheart!”

By the words _rise and shine, sweetheart_. It can't be.

But when he opens his eyes, squinting against the sunshine that seems to slice straight through his skull, Liam is standing there, hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised.

Killian bolts upright and regrets it immediately. The pain in his head comes so sharp, he nearly vomits. But he still manages to grind out, “Liam? What the fuck?”

A second voice says calmly, “relax. I called him.” David takes a step forward. "We needed someone with some maritime pull."

 

For a moment Killian feels like the world is ganging up on him.

 

And then Liam sits down on the edge of the bed. He points to the bottle. “I see you made very good use of your time.” Killian bristles and Liam holds up his hand. “Trust me when I tell you that it has been pointed out to me that I've been a complete ass. By more than one person.” He looks pointedly at David, who grins unapologetically. “My lovely wife actually banished me to the couch. For a _week_.” He says it as if there was no greater punishment in hell and damnation, and Killian can't help but laugh. It sounds like a dry, hacking cough, and when Liam turns back to look at him, his eyes are worried and serious.

“So I take it you really like this lass?” They have both spent large amounts of time in British ports, and sometimes English expressions will just creep into their speech. More often with Liam.

Killian nods.

“Tell me, little brother,” Liam asks, still serious. “What is she to you, then?”

Killian locates his voice at the bottom of the lump in his throat. “ _Younger_ brother,” he grinds out, because he cannot help himself. And then goes on to answer. “Everything, Liam. She means everything.”

Liam's eyes widen. “Everything?”

Killian's voice is unsteady, but sure. “Everything.”

 

Liam studies him for a long moment, and then gets up, pulling Killian with him. “In that case, get yourself into the shower and clean the fuck up. And then let's go find her.”

And Killian remembers for the first time in forever how absolutely wonderful it is to have a brother. Even when he's a dick like Liam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tires squealing on gravel wake Emma up. Dawn has crept in and the early morning light makes the cabin seem even more dilapidated than before. The man gets up from his chair and looks at Emma.

“Boss is here,” he says, again without inflection.

Emma sits up and can't help staring at the door. Whoever walks through it will decide her fate.

 

She hears a car door close and steps advancing. Sure. Unhurried. Confident.

Then the door opens and a woman enters.

 

She looks around, nods at the man, and then her eyes come to rest on Emma. She walks slowly across the room as the door falls shut behind her, pulls out a chair and turns it around. She sits down facing the bed, her arms resting on the chair back, her gaze never leaving Emma's own.

She is in her late forties, with dark brown hair and a cruel slant to her mouth.

 

“So you're Emma,” she says. It's a statement, not a question. “You're not much to look at. I wonder what he saw in you.”

Emma's eyebrows rise in question, but her voice has stopped working.

“I thought you'd be prettier,” the woman continues. “And somehow more--- just more.” She sighs and leans back a bit, takes in Emma's whole body.

“Well, it is no matter,” she finally goes on. “It's not like I want _you_.”

The whole exchange is so confusing, Emma can't do anything except look at her, puzzled.

“I see that you have some questions,” the woman continues. “While I certainly won't answer most of them, I think there's no harm in telling you who I am.” Her smile turns vicious. “My name is Milah. And I am Neal's mother.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that i am much faster at writing actual plot than i am when there are mostly feelings involved.  
> Huh.  
> i don't know what that says about me as a person, but hey, there it is.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Emma stares, dumbstruck. The woman across from her is still smiling her vicious smile. But there's something else in it now. Satisfaction.

“What do you want with me?”

Milah raises an eyebrow. “You? Did you not hear me? It's not you I want at all.” She chuckles. “But I do want something from you.” Her eyes very pointedly move to Emma's middle.

Emma's hand flies to her stomach. Fear crawls up her spine like long lost enemy.

“Aaah,” Milah nods. “I see you are finally getting the picture.”

“You want--- you want---” Emma can't finish the sentence. Can't finish the thought.

“Yes.” Milah's voice is a hiss. “I want my grandchild. I don't care what happens to you, but that child is mine.”

“Wh-- what is your plan? K- kidnap me and hold me prisoner for the next four months?” Emma can't stop her voice from shaking. Fear has its claws inside her now.

“Pretty much.”

“And then? Once I give birth, what will you do then?” She can't stop herself. She has to know.

Milah shrugs. “Oh, we'll jump off that bridge when we get to it.” Then she smiles and Emma's heart skips a beat. The look in Milah's eyes is not entirely sane. Her smile looks unhinged.

Emma shudders and draws the blanket around her. Her hands are shaking.

Milah turns and throws her car keys at the man. “Go empty my trunk, Walsh,” she says. “I brought breakfast and a space heater. Might as well enjoy both before we get back on the road.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“In other words, we have nothing. Again.” Killian slams his fist onto David's desk, only to pull it back up with a grunt of pain.

Liam shakes his head and looks up at David. “Sorry. There are no records on either boat. Anywhere. And I have access to every naval database in existence.” Then he turns to Killian. “Breaking your hand is not going to help her.”

 

It is the straw that breaks the camel's back.

 

With a roar Killian pulls up Liam by the collar and slams him into the wall.

“What would you know about it?” He hears himself yelling. Couldn't stop if he tried. He hears David call his name from far, far away, but he doesn't care and he will not listen. “You met her and you hated her. You've been nothing but ugly to her. And to me. You don't even want to help find her. So tell me _brother_ ,” he can hear his voice become savage and cruel as he pulls Liam up and slams him back into the wall. “Tell me what you are really doing here? Marking time? As a favor to your friend? To get back into your wife's good graces?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind Killian notices that Liam is not fighting back. That he just stands there, letting Killian slam him into the wall.

Again.

And again.

 

And then David is there and somehow gets between them and shoves him back from his brother with force.

“Killian,” he says, taking a big, gulping breath. “I know you're hurting. But do this again and I will throw you in my holding cell. In handcuffs. Is that clear?”

Killian looks up slowly. David has suddenly become a different person. Here he is, finally, the Boston cop.  
“ _Is that clear?_ ” David's voice is pure ice.

Killian nods slowly. He sinks down on the nearest chair and watches his hands start to tremble.

“It's OK, David,” he hears Liam's voice. “Leave him be. It's his way of coping. It always has been.”

 

Liam's words hit Killian like a bullet to the chest. He can't breathe. He can't think. His whole body starts to shake and he is helpless before it.  
His whole life he has fought and has clawed and has railed against it; only to now succumb in the end.

It's his greatest fear, and Liam has named it: That Killian is just like his father.

 

He's barely aware of Liam crouching before him and he can't look and he can't breathe and he can't move; and then a slap explodes across his left cheek.

And another.

And another.

 

Killian evades the fourth one by pulling his head back at the very last moment and then glares at his brother. “Will you fucking stop that?”

“Only if you stop being an idiot.” Liam's glare has nothing on his own. That man could burn steel to cinders with his eyes alone.

“I'm not being an idiot,” Killian mumbles. “And I'm not sorry I hit you.”

“That part is fine,” Liam says, “I had that coming. But you _are_ being a fucking dumbass. It's all over your face.”

“What's all over my face?”

“Now you listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once.” Liam's eyes are burning into his. “You are nothing like him, do you hear me? Nothing.” His hands have wrapped around Killian's shoulders and he shakes him for good measure. “He was a selfish, self-serving bastard, and you're nothing like him. I should know. I was there for all of the fucking carnage, _all of it_. I watched him self destruct night after night after night and it was all I could do to keep him from taking us down with him. Now you tell me,” Liam's hands tighten like vises, “what was the last selfish thing you did? When you picked up a girl by the side of the road? When you took her hundreds of miles up the coast? When you defended her honor in front of your brother? Your whole family? When?”

Liam lets go so abruptly, Killian nearly falls off the chair.

“You don't have a selfish bone in your body, asshole. You're nothing like him.” Liam takes a deep, shaky breath, and his eyes are still burning. “You're like her.”

 

Tears spring to Killian's eyes, and he can't hold them back as the rage slowly drains from him, leaving nothing but pure exhaustion in its wake. He looks at his brother, and he can't ask the question, but Liam hears it anyway.

“I'm sure. I may not know a lot, but I do know that,” he says quietly.

Killian feels numb.

Liam's words fall like ashes around him. He can't feel them, yet, but he might someday.

He might someday.

 

 

Liam gets up and nods at David, before turning back to Killian. “Now pull yourself together, little brother. Get up and let's go have some goddamn breakfast, because I'm fucking starving and so are you.”

 

It's so close to what he told Emma that first morning in the truck. _NowLetMeBuyYouSomeGoddamnBreakfast_. It hits him in a place that's both painful and hopeful. The last part is a surprise. Hope.

 

He stands and levels Liam with a glare. “Younger brother, asshole,” he says, and Liam smiles. The hope inside Killian surges and it's definitely painful. But wonderful, too.

“Take the walkie,” David says, and hands one to Liam. “I'll stay here and keep combing records. I'll let you know if I find anything.”

Liam nods, turns, and punches Killian's shoulder. “Move your ass,” he smiles. “Did I not mention I was hungry?”

“Keep hitting me and you'll be something else.”

Liam laughs out loud, and Killian joins in. It turns out that hope is a beautiful thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emma chews slowly on something resembling a ham sandwich. She has crept into the corner where the headboard meets the side wall and wrapped the blanket around her like a shield.

She cannot get her hands to stop shaking.

Milah and Walsh have taken seats at the table; Walsh inhaling his food as Milah slowly sips coffee. Neither one have spared her a glance in minutes. Milah looks pensive and Walsh doesn't care.

 

She thinks of Killian.

By now he must have realized that she is missing. What if he thinks she just up and left him?

What if he thinks she could do that to him?

Here she is, stuck in this impossible situation, and what, what if she doesn't make it out? What if Milah takes her somewhere so far away that no one will find her, lets her have a baby and then makes her disappear?

Her hands start shaking so badly she can't take another bite. Bile rises at the back of her throat, and Emma is forced to admit that she is afraid.

Afraid of what will happen to her.

Afraid of what will happen to _them_.

And afraid, so afraid, of what it will do to Killian.

Because she has seen how much his brother's words hurt him. She has seen what pain can do to this man. And this? This might break him. He is stronger than she is when it comes to matters of hope, but he doesn't do well when pain reaches his heart.  
She has seen it happen.

And this will cut him. So deep.

 

And here is this woman, who thinks she can just do as she pleases; can take Emma from her happiness, can take Killian from his; can take this life that's just started to grow inside her, and keep it, _and keep it_ , all to herself.

No.

 _No_.

 

Emma shakes her head to clear it, and from somewhere deep inside her something rises; something hard and solid and uncompromising. Immutable. Intractable. A core of steel.

Her hands no longer tremble.

Her spine straightens and she draws back her shoulders.

 _No_. She lets the word melt on her tongue.

She won't let this happen.

She _won't_.

She thinks of Killian telling her that it was high time she had a bit of luck, and goddamn it, she's due for some luck right about now. She has fucking earned it. And if fate will not provide, she will get her happy ending her own damn self, even if it's the last thing she ever does.

 

 

She throws down her sandwich and looks straight at Milah. “Walsh tell you about my meds? Because by now I am way, _way_ overdue for both.”

Milah's head comes up. “What are you talking about?” She turns to Walsh. “What is she talking about?”

Walsh cringes. “She says she has to take medication,” he answers. “Something about risk.”

Milah turns back to Emma. “Explain yourself.”

Emma takes a deep breath. “The resident doc gave me something against high blood pressure. And something else against pregnancy diabetes. Seems I'm running the risk of both.”

 

Milah's eyebrows rise and Emma forces her breath to stay steady. She is betting the whole damn farm on this gamble. Then Milah gets up and walks over to Emma. Her eyes never leave her face as she crouches down before her.

“You're bluffing,” she finally says, getting back up. “You're just trying to stall us.”

Emma reaches down inside herself and the core of steel holds. Steady. Unmoving.

She meets Milah's gaze, unblinking and sure. “Am I.”

 

They stare at each other for long, long moments.

And when Milah blinks, Emma knows she has won. She almost smiles. Almost.

 

“And where is this medication of yours?”

“In my bathroom at Granny's.”

“How convenient,” Milah huffs. “Right in the middle of the lion's den. How stupid do you think I am?”

Emma bites down hard on _HowStupidIsThere?_ and replies instead, “where else would it be? That is where I live.”

Milah turns back to Walsh and shakes her head. “Fuck.” It comes out like a slap, and Walsh flinches before it.

“You imbecile,” Milah spits at him. “All this time tailing her and you didn't know about that?”

“I did see her go to the clinic,” he mumbles. “But I thought that was just a checkup.”

“You _thought_? My god, I'm surrounded by idiots.” Walsh looks down, and Milah looks back at Emma. She keeps her expression neutral and open.

“Fine, god _damn_ it.” Milah sounds truly angry. “Go into town, Walsh. Grab everything from her fucking bathroom. And do not, I repeat, do _not_ get caught.” She advances on him and whispers in his ear. “You let yourself get caught and you will do nothing for the rest of your life except rot in prison. Is that understood?”

Walsh nods and slinks away like a broken toy.

For the briefest of moments Emma feels almost sorry for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Killian can do is pick at his food. While Liam wolfs down a burger and fries, every bite he takes turns to sawdust in his mouth. Liam looks at him several times, but thankfully doesn't comment on it.

“I know I have told you how I met Wendy,” Liam finally says.

“Only about a dozen times. She slapped you.”

Liam grins. “Yup, she sure did. I was being an ass.”

Killian raises his eyebrows in mock consternation. “No,” he says, clutching his chest theatrically, “ _you_ were being an ass? Surely you jest.”

“Fuck off,” Liam says, still grinning. “I know you know the story.”

 

Killian does know the story. How Liam got passed over for Lieutenant Commander, and went to a bar to get good and drunk. How he hit on every pair of tits along the way, how he got progressively worse with each drink. And how the bartender, a feisty girl named Wendy, finally asked him to leave. And slapped him out cold when Liam refused. Out _cold_.

When Killian heard the story the first time, Liam's ears burned red with shame when he got to that part. Wendy's smile, on the other hand, could have warmed a cold planet.

 

“What I never told you, I don't think, is the moment I knew Wendy was the one.”

Killian's head snaps up and he studies his brother. It's not like Liam to open up. But the expression on his face is nothing but honest.

“I came to on this couch with a splitting headache. I looked around and found I was in a small office. And there was the bartender, behind a desk, doing paperwork. I didn't know then that she owned the bar.” Liam shrugs. “Not that it would have mattered. I went in the night before on a rampage, and nothing would have stopped me.” He sighs. “Talk about sins of the father.”

Killian doesn't even recognize his brother. Liam is never pensive. At least not with him. A part of him wonders if Liam ever felt he _couldn't_ be this open with Killian. Because he had to be the strong one, the one in charge.

The thought doesn't sit well with Killian at all.

But Liam goes on, and stops him from dwelling on it. “Anyway, she looked at me like she had my number. I was gearing up to apologize and she told me to stuff it. If I remember correctly, her exact words were, 'save it. I don't need to know your reasons for getting trashed. I'm sure they were good ones and I really don't care.'”

 

Killian laughs. He can't help it. He can picture Wendy telling his big brother off, and it's a welcome distraction from his own swirling thoughts.

 

Liam grins again. “Then she gave me a cup of coffee and told me if I ever pulled that kind of shit again, I'd be banned from her bar for life. And she meant it.”

“And that was the moment?”

Liam nods. “That was the moment. She was tough and lovely and she was never going to fall for any of my crap. And I sat there, drinking coffee with my head threatening to split open, and all I could think was how to get her to go out with me. Because I realized in that moment I was never going to look at another woman again.”

Killian smiles a wistful smile, and then sees his brother staring at him. When he looks up, Liam nods. “So how about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Don't even think about lying to me,” Liam says, his voice serious. “You've had that moment. Don't try to deny it. You have the worst poker face on the planet.”

 

Killian sighs in defeat. “We stopped at a diner that first day we were driving. And Emma was hungry, but she was also broke. She refused to get anything to eat, even though her eyes nearly bulged out of her head every time a waitress carried food past our table.”

He has to take a deep breath. Telling this story should not be this painful. “I ordered extra fries with my meal and then pretended I couldn't finish them. Offered them to her. You should have seen her face.”

Something deep inside him is starting to hurt. He has a hard time going on. “She saw right through me, and then she ate them anyway. And then she _paid_ for them. Said she didn't like to owe people. She had no money, but she paid for them anyway.”

His eyes are getting wet, and he blinks furiously. “She's stubborn and strong and _impossible_ , and she drives me crazy, and--- and---”

He looks up at Liam, because he can't possibly keep talking, not with a lump in his throat the size of the Rock of Gibraltar.

And Liam just nods, says, “I think I get it”, and lets it go.

While Killian sits there and tries to remember how to breathe.

 

“I saw it all over your face when you walked in with her,” Liam says, quietly. “When we came to see you. But the last time I'd talked to you, you never mentioned a girl, and suddenly weeks later you walked in with one, and you had that fucking _look_ on your face.”

Killian looks up and Liam tries not to squirm. “I thought she was taking advantage. Because you just fucking met her and so obviously cared for her. I thought you were going to get nothing but hurt. It never occurred to me that it could be the real thing.”

“So you just decided to be the world's biggest asshole?”

Liam shrugs. “When it comes to you, it's what I do best.”

Killian leans back, speechless. Everything is all tangled up and he no longer knows what to think.

Then Liam claps him on the shoulder and gets up. “Let's get back to David. We'll find something, I promise.”

 

 

Liam goes to pay and Killian exits the diner. He stares down the road at nothing, clenching his fists. Talking about Emma makes her seem farther away and their search seem more hopeless, and the last thing she needs is for him to lose it again.

 

When he looks up, he sees an ancient white Ford pull out of the alleyway and onto the main road.

 

And then. Come flashes.

Images in rapid succession.

A motel parking lot. A clinic parking lot. A diner parking lot. The resident hospital parking lot. _The fucking marina parking lot_ , right here in Storybrooke.

 

Liam comes down the walkway and Killian screams, “ _keys, now!_ ”; and for once, god for once Liam does exactly what he is told and throws Killian his car keys; and Killian runs, runs down the street, Liam hard on his heels; and he throws himself behind the wheel and pulls out, tires screeching, while Liam is still closing the passenger side door behind him.

He sees the white Ford turn onto the road out of town and guns the engine as he turns to follow.

 

 

Liam next to him calmly buckles his seat belt and says, “what's going on?”

Killian has trouble controlling his voice. It somersaults all over his sentences. “I have seen this car. I've fucking seen it since we were on the road in _Massachusetts_. I never noticed, I never paid attention, but I have seen this car. Everywhere we went.” He looks at his brother. “Don't tell me I'm crazy. I know what I saw.”

Liam nods.

“And we're going to follow him wherever he goes, is that clear? And I need your car, because he knows my truck.”

 

Liam pulls out the walkie. “David?”

At first there is static, followed by, “Liam?”

“David, we're in pursuit of a possible suspect,” Liam says, and Killian is unspeakably grateful. Liam believes him. “White Ford, at least 15 years old. Can't make out the plate, but it looked like Virginia.”

How, how did Liam have time to look at the license plate, when Killian did not?

“Killian says he's seen the car follow them from back when they were on the road.”

“Say again?” David sounds incredulous. Killian can't blame him. It's all he can do to keep his eyes on that goddamn white speck of car in the distance; all he can do not to floor it and run it right off the road.

Liam's voice is quiet and sure when he replies. “He says they may have been followed as far back as Massachusetts. We're checking it out.”

“Liam, please don't,” comes David's reply. “You're not trained for this. You're not equipped for this. Come back here and let's do it right.”

 

Killian presses his lips together, and pushes down on the accelerator. There is no way, no way he's turning around. In the back of his head he can hear Emma, and she's telling him, she's _telling him_ to follow that car.

He might be going out of his mind.

But he's not about to let this one chance go.

 

Liam doesn't argue back, just asks, “can you track our location?”

They can both hear David sigh across the short waves. “Of course I can.” He sounds resigned, and Killian smiles. “I'll be right behind you.”

Liam clicks off the walkie and turns to Killian. “Tell me you're not going to do anything stupid.”

“I never do anything stupid.”

“Oh god,” Liam groans. “You are going to do something incredibly stupid. Aren't you.”

Killian pushes back down on the accelerator. The white Ford gets incrementally closer.

“Yes, I am,” he whispers. “And I'm getting her back. Today.”

 

 

 

The white Ford eventually turns left on a dirt road leading into the woods.

Killian is about to turn off behind him when Liam reaches over and grabs the steering wheel. “Are you insane?” He hisses. “Keep going and then pull over.”

Killian screeches to a halt on the shoulder and turns his fury on Liam. “What the fuck are you doing? We're going to lose him!”

“That's a solitary road, leading into the woods,” Liam answers, calmly. “What do you think would happen when that driver notices he's being followed?”

So Liam has a point. Killian just grinds his teeth.

“David,” Liam is back on the walkie. “We're a few miles north of town, beside a dirt road going west. Do you know where it leads?”

“Nowhere,” comes the answer. “If you are where I think you are, then the road just goes through the woods until it gets to a bridge you can't cross, because it's broken.”

“No turnoffs?”

“Not that I know of. No roads at least. There might be a few cabins.” There is more static. “Are you still following? I'm only a few minutes behind you. Just pull over and wait.”

Liam looks at Killian, whose door is already open. “You're not going to wait, are you.” It's a statement, not a question.

“What do you think?” Killian doesn't expect an answer, but he does expect Liam to roll his eyes. Which he does. “You deal with David. I'm going after her.”

Liam's hand closes around his wrist just as he is starting to get out of the car.

“Wait!” He shouts, and pulls Killian back. “I have an idea.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The slap across her cheek is hard and vicious, and where Milah's rings meet her skin, they instantly draw blood. Emma's head snaps back from the force of the blow, and the bump at the base of her neck sends pain in spikes to the back of her watering eyes. She sees stars for a moment.

Has to hold on to consciousness.

 

“You devious little _liar_ ,” Milah spits. “There is nothing here.”

She has emptied Walsh's paper bag of Emma's toiletries, and no, of course there is no medication among her things. Milah slaps her again, and pain slices straight through her skull. A few more of these and she'll be passed out for good.

She can't bring herself to mind, now that all is lost.

 

She had hoped against hope that Killian would somehow, _somehow_ catch Walsh in the act of emptying the bathroom. That he would catch Walsh and then--- then what? Torture her location out of him? Beat him into submission? Ride in on a white horse and save her?

She realizes that it was an impossible hope to begin with. And it doesn't matter now, because it did not pan out.

 

“Pack up the car,” Milah says to Walsh. “We are leaving now.” She gets up from the table and advances on Emma. “And as for you, missy,” she says, slowly wrapping her hand around Emma's neck, “what am I going to do with you?”

She squeezes, and Emma claws at her hand, but Milah doesn't budge, and the air is getting thin. Then Emma closes her eyes and puts all of her energy into punching a fist into the middle of Milah's torso.

She hits her solar plexus. Milah almost folds in half.

“That, my dear, is going to cost you,” Milah pants, trying hard to catch her breath. “You realize that you do not need higher brain functions to gestate?”

Emma's blood nearly curdles in her veins, but she looks up in defiance. “Tell me you didn't get all your medical knowledge from fucking 'Kill Bill'.” If this is her last stand, she better make it count. Because as soon as they leave here all hope is truly lost – Emma can feel that in the marrow of her bones.

“It was an inspiration, I admit,” Milah grins. It looks ghastly. “But I did do some research. These really are the glory days of information.”

 

Emma is about to get up and rush her, when both hear gravel being ground up by tires. Car tires. An engine cuts off, and a door opens, and then a voice says, “excuse me, sir?”

 

Milah moves like a flash and wraps one arm around Emma's neck, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth. Emma tries to struggle, tries to throw her off, but Milah has leverage and Emma has trouble breathing. And with Milah behind her, Emma has nowhere to throw a punch. She tries to pull away Milah's hand, tries to bite her palm, but Milah doesn't relent and just wraps her arm tighter.

Emma realizes that this time, she might actually pass out.

 

They can hear Walsh outside walk up to the car.

“I seem to be lost,” the stranger says. It's a male voice, one which Emma knows, but can't place. Besides, she's busy enough just trying to stay conscious.

“I was looking for this camp ground here,” the stranger goes on, and then footsteps approach. “But reception here is such crap, I think my GPS got turned around.”

And then there is the sound of a dull impact, and a body hits the ground.

Emma can feel Milah smile into the back of her head. “I guess Walsh is good for something,” she says, and then the door bursts open.

 

Emma has a fraction of a second to recognize Killian explode into the room like an angel of vengeance and then he barrels into them both, throws them back on the bed; and the next thing she knows Milah is ripped from her grip and Emma rolls over, gasping, fighting for breath. When she looks up, Killian has Milah in a headlock and he is dragging her away from the bed.

His eyes are dark and his mouth is a tight line. Milah is fighting and clawing at his arm, and Killian heaves her straight off the floor. “Give me one good reason to break your neck,” he says in a voice Emma has never heard before. “Go ahead. I beg you.”

Milah stops struggling, and he lowers her feet back to the floor. Then his eyes move to Emma, and the look in them takes her breath away. They are blown wide in fear and desperation and _pain_.

“Are you alright, love?” His voice is _shaking_.

Emma straightens up. “I'm fine.” Her voice is scratchy, and it hurts to talk, but she's here and she's fine and he has to know.

His whole body shudders in response, but he doesn't loosen his grip one iota. Milah's face has gone deathly pale.

“Let her go,” Emma whispers. “Please let her go.”

Killian looks like he's not even in the room. His eyes are fixed on Emma, and he's still as a statue.

“Killian,” comes a voice from behind him, and Liam enters, puts a hand on his brother's arm. “Let her go. I've got her.”

 

Emma's head starts to spin. Liam is here? And suddenly David appears behind him--- _David_? How did he get here?--- and slaps handcuffs on Milah, and Killian finally lets go. Milah slumps to the ground, breathing hard.

 

Emma sways and that gets Killian moving at last. His arms come around her like bands of iron, and he drops his head on her shoulder, buries his face in her neck.

Repeats her name over and over and over. Like he's stuck in a loop.

Emma watches as David and Liam drag Milah outside and leave her with a trembling man in her arms.

“Killian,” she whispers into his ear. “Killian, it's alright. I'm here. I'm fine.”

He pulls back to look at her and god – his expression could break her heart clean through.

His hands start to move up and down her body, searching for damage, searching for injury. It takes her a few moments to catch them, to still them, to get his attention.

“Shhhhh,” she says, when he's finally back with her, “it's OK, I'm OK, we are all OK now.”

His hand comes down to rest on her belly, and his look of naked concern brings tears to her eyes. She puts her hand on his and smiles a watery smile. “We're fine. I promise.”

 

 

And then it hits her. He is here. He is _here_. Somehow he found her and somehow he saved her and it's over now, it's over, it's _over_.

She hears herself laugh, high-pitched and thin, and Killian's arms fold around her, and then her knees buckle. He picks her up and her arms wind around him, and he carries her outside, her head buried in his shoulder. She doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to see Milah or Walsh or this cabin, ever again.

She hears David on the walkie, calling for reinforcements, and Liam says something about driving, and Killian answers something that sounds like “right now”.

She feels Killian sit down on what must be the back seat of a car, because he slides a long way, and does not let her go.

And then Liam's voice, closer, says “here you go,” and something soft and warm is spread all around her. A blanket.

 

She opens her eyes.

She _is_ in the back seat of a car. A car she doesn't know.

Liam is getting into the driver's seat.

Killian is holding on to her like she might disappear any moment. When she looks up, he manages a smile. But his eyes look absolutely shattered.

Emma reaches up to cup his cheek as Liam turns the key in the ignition and starts to drive away.

 

“You found me,” she says, and Killian's eyes grow large and shiny. “You found me.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I love you,” he says.

Emma sputters and his arms tighten around her.

“Don't---” he says, and kisses the top of her head. “I know it's too much, and it's not the right time, but I can't--- I just can't....”

She moves her hand to the back of his neck, fists her fingers in his hair and pulls him down for a kiss. His mouth opens with a sigh, and then he's kissing her back, and it's slow and it's soft and it's so, so...

Right.

 

“You're a dumbass,” she says, when she finally pulls back. Killian's eyes widen in surprise and she slaps his shoulder.

“Why?”

“You're a dumbass if you think you can scare me with this.” She grins up at his crestfallen expression. “And you're especially a dumbass if you don't think I love you, too.”

Killian laughs and buries his nose in her hair. “I'm so tired of people calling me a dumbass,” he says, and then he kisses her again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the muse came out to play, and this is what happened.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...one happy end, as promised.  
> i might have overdone the happy, but i simply couldn't help myself.

 

 

They drive Emma to the hospital to get checked out, no matter how often she repeats that she's fine. Killian runs his finger down her face, past the two cuts Milah's rings left on her cheekbone, and gives Liam directions to the clinic. Liam doesn't argue, just drives.

 

When they get to the parking lot, Liam gets out of the car and then stops. „I guess I better go see David and give my statement,“ he says. „And then head back to Portland.“

He turns to Emma. „I owe you an apology. For the way I acted when I----“

„You helped save my life,“ Emma cuts him off. And then she smiles at him. „You helped save my _life_. I'd say that makes us all kinds of even.“

And then she simply walks up to Liam and hugs him.

He looks stunned.

Killian can't help the grin that starts to spread wide across his face. Because he knows firsthand what a blast of Emma Swan charm can do to a Jones man. When Emma lets him go, Liam just stands there, looking at Killian.

„I think I see it now,“ he mumbles, and Killian's grin threatens to split his face.

 

 

Killian takes Emma's hand and doesn't let go.

Doesn't let go as the resident doctor shines a pen light in her eyes and feels the bump on her head and puts antiseptic gel on her cuts. Doesn't let go when they listen to the baby's heartbeat. Doesn't let go when she's pronounced fine.

Doesn't let go when they start to walk back and his cell phone rings. After he hangs up, he says, „that was David. Can you handle going down to the station?“

Emma stiffens and his hand tightens around hers, and she's just happy he's there. With her.

„Is--- are they there?“ She can't bring herself to use their names.

„No,“ he answers softly. „Milah and Walsh are in custody in Portland. There'll be nobody at the station except David. Not even his deputy.“

Emma exhales a shaky breath. She doesn't want to show weakness, but she really, really doesn't want to be confronted with either one of her captors again. „Then we can go to the station.“

He stops, looks at her. „Are you sure?“

And she smiles into his worried eyes. „Yes. Definitely. Let's get it over with.“

Killian lets go of her hand only to put his arm around her and pull her into his side. And that's how they walk back into Storybrooke.

 

 

 

After David takes their official statement down at the station;

after Granny serves them half the menu on the house;

after Wendy calls them and nearly cries on the phone and then makes them promise again to come visit for Thanksgiving--

Emma simply pulls Killian out of the diner booth and drags him upstairs. Without another word.

She hauls him through the door and nearly slams him against it as it closes and then climbs him like a tree. His hands come up to hold her as she wraps her legs tightly around his middle, and then she fists her hands into his shirt and pulls him in for a kiss, hard and hungry and bruising. Like she never wants to let him go.

 

She starts to move her hips against him and god – he's so hard already. And then she bites his earlobe and whispers, „please, Killian, please. I need to feel you. Right now.“

With a growl he crushes his mouth against hers and takes three steps and throws her down on the bed. Worry at his own roughness rises for a moment, but Emma's look stops it right in its tracks.

And then she lunges for him, pulls him down by the shirt front; and she nips at his neck as her hand wanders down to feel him, to where he is so painfully ready and aching; and then she wraps her hand around him and pants, „inside me. Now.“

 

He had promised himself to take his time, if and when he got her back. To go slow, to draw it out, to enjoy every moment. But that is not what Emma needs right now. And if he is honest with himself – it is not what he needs, either. What they need, what they crave, is affirmation.

And closure.

To come together hard and fast and stronger than ever, to banish the nightmare, to put an end to the fear, and to exorcise this demon before it takes a hold of them.

 

He's hardly aware of the stripping of their clothes; all he can feel is her mouth, nipping and licking and then suddenly biting down on his pulse point, _hard_. His breath stutters as he pushes two fingers inside her and Jesus – she is wetter than she was that first night. Dripping. Her hand is pumping him fast and he has to reach down to still it.

„Stop,“ he grinds out. „Stop or this will be over before it starts.“

„Then take me,“ she whispers, and if he had half a brain cell left, he would respond to the sheer weight of that statement, to all the possible meanings of it. But he can't, not now; and then she bites down on his collar bone and he drives himself into her to the hilt, watches her back arch and her belly push up, listens to her stifle her scream with her own fist.

And pulls her hand away from her mouth.

„Don't,“ he growls, „don't be ashamed. Let me hear you.“

„But---“ Her eyes are wide, and she can't go on.

„Nobody on this floor,“ he pants. „Scream all you want. For me. For yourself.“

She moves her hips in response and he pulls out, almost to the tip, and then drives back inside her; as her hips snap to his; as they set a bruising rhythm; as her her eyes open bolt-wide; as her hands claw his back; as she moans and he gasps; and he pulls up her leg and changes the angle and goes deeper and deeper–

and then her breath hitches, stutters

and her moan becomes a keening wail

and her eyes grow impossibly bigger

and she tightens around him, arches up high  
and he can't hold on, can't hold on, not a single second longer---

and then he comes and he comes and he comes.

 

Collapses next to her, tries to catch his breath; his hand splayed across her belly, his nose buried in her hair.

 

„Oh god,“ she groans after long, long moments, „I needed that.“ She pushes herself up on one arm, leans down to kiss him, and whispers in his ear. „I needed you.“

He just wraps his arms around her, pulls her in tightly and kisses her back, because he can't find his voice. Because as much as she needed this, he needed it more.

 

 

 

 

Emma wakes up shivering a short while later. They are lying naked on the covers, and the room is not warm. She gently disentangles herself, and the moment her weight leaves the mattress, Killian bolts upright.

His eyes snap open and he looks both panicked and disoriented.

„Hey,“ she says softly, „are you OK?“

His eyes focus on her, but it takes him a long time to answer.

„Fine,“ he croaks, finally. „Where are you going, love?“

She grins. „I was thinking we need pajamas before we freeze to death.“

„Oh. Good thinking.“ He tries to return her smile, but falls short.

 

Emma walks over to the dresser and throws Killian's sleep clothes in his direction. His hands don't lift to catch them and they hit him square in the chest. He doesn't seem to notice. Emma pulls on cotton pants and a T-shirt and goes to sit down next to him. His eyes never leave her face.

She takes his hand. „Bad dream?“

The question shakes him out of his trance and he shrugs. „Kind of.“ He finally puts on his clothes and does not elaborate.

Then her eyes fall on the bottle of rum on her nightstand, and she takes his hand again, folds her fingers between his. „Killian? Did you--- When I was gone, did you---“ She can't finish.

His hand tightens in hers and he looks up. „Yes, love, I did. I didn't take it very well.“

 

She thinks of Killian, drinking rum alone in the darkness, with nothing but uncertainty and fear for company, and it makes her ache. She starts rubbing his back in long, slow strokes – the way he always does for her, the way it always makes her feel better.

 

„I was so afraid, when they took me--- I was so afraid you'd think I'd just up and left.“ Her voice is a whisper. „I need you to know that I would never just leave. Never. Not without telling you. I know what it's like to be left behind and I would not do this to anyone. Least of all you.“ She pulls his hand up to her heart, wraps it in both of hers. „I know it hurt you, and for that I am so sorry.“

His eyebrows rise. „Are you apologizing for getting _kidnapped_?“

She barks a short laugh. „No, of course not. But I am sorry for the worry it caused you.“

„Worry....“ He repeats, so low she can hardly hear it. Then he looks straight at her. „I was scared. Really, really scared. And then I lost my mind for a moment.“ He rolls his eyes. „And then Liam rode in on his fucking white horse and saved me and the day.“

„No,“ Emma says, with vehemence. „That is not how this story goes. I heard your statement. _You_ saw the car. _You_ followed it. _You_ wouldn't take no for an answer, and you didn't stop until you found me, until you dragged that bitch off me. _You_ fucking saved the day.“

She kisses him, hard. „I'm here because of you. You did that.“

He sighs. „It was a million to one that I happened to be on the street when that Ford pulled out. It was nothing but pure dumb luck.“

„Well, it was high time you had a bit of luck.“

Killian laughs, hard and brittle, and Emma lets go of his hand and grabs him by the shoulders.

„Look at me, Killian Jones,“ she says. And he does. „It doesn't matter if it was luck or fate or fucking whatever. You did it. End of story.“

He slumps against her. „I'm just happy I got you back.“

„I'm happy I'm here.“ She drops a kiss to the top of his head. „There is no place else I want to be.“

„I just-- I can't wait for our lives to become a little more normal,“ he whispers.

„Oh, I don't know,“ Emma winds her hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. „I grant you that we could use a _little_ more normal. But I draw the line at boring.“

She can feel a small grin against her neck. „I have the feeling that life with you is never boring,“ his voice is still a whisper. „But I do want a little less excitement for the forseeable future.“

Emma laughs, and pushes him to lie back down, and pulls up the covers; and then he wraps himself around her, his nose against the back of her neck and his hand slowly rubbing her belly.

And then she tells him she loves him, because it is her turn to say it first.

 

 

 

 

 

On a Wednesday afternoon three weeks later they ring a Portland doorbell. Wendy opens the door and smiles her warm smile.

„You made it!“ She says, pulling them into the apartment. „Come in, come in-- I'm so happy to see you!“ Her eyes move to Emma. „You're getting bigger!“

Killian watches as Emma laughs and puts both hands on her bump. It has grown a lot, and he loves how happy she looks, how easily she touches it these days.

 

 

The kitchen looks like a war zone. Plates and mixing bowls and cooking gear litter the counter tops. Ceran-wrapped casserole dishes line the edges of the sink. Dylan is sitting in a high chair, banging a spoon into puddles of carrot mush. There are at least two pies in the oven.

„Sorry for the mess,“ Wendy says. „I had to get started today, since the turkey is going to occupy my oven tomorrow. And because David and MM said that they'll be here at 12:30. Which means they will be here at noon on the dot.“

„Exactly how many armies are you planning on feeding?“ Killian asks, still smiling.

Wendy swats his arm. „I know what you and your brother can eat,“ she shoots back. „I will kindly remind you of our first 4th of July party.“ She turns to Emma. „I bought hamburger meat for ten people and almost ran out of food between the two of them.“

Liam laughs out loud, and Killian realizes that this is who his brother is when he is at home with his family. Relaxed and carefree and easy, loose. How has he never noticed before?

 

„Anyway,“ Wendy goes on, „we're having sandwiches. And then you---“ she points at Killian-- „are taking my husband down to my bar, where you can buy him beer and he can't break any more of my serving dishes.“

This time Killian laughs out loud. „Are you seriously sending us to out to drink in the middle of prepping Thanksgiving dinner? There are easier ways to make us bond.“

Wendy huffs and then grins. „I couldn't think of a better excuse to get some girl time with Emma. And Liam does have the worst track record when it comes to my china. It's like he thinks my plates are frisbees.“

„Hey!“ Liam protests, and then Emma laughs, and then Killian laughs again; and something warm and wonderful rises in his chest. He pulls Emma close and kisses her neck.

„It seems my evening is spoken for,“ he whispers into her ear. „Will you be alright with this fury and her son?“

Emma leans her head back and he gives her a proper kiss. „We'll be fine,“ she says. „I'm easily as good as your brother at breaking dishes. We'll hardly know you guys are gone.“

 

 

 

Two hours later the kitchen looks moderatly habitable, Dylan has been put to bed, the brothers have left the premises, and Wendy pulls Emma into the master bedroom.

She points at two neatly folded stacks of clothes. „I thought you could use these.“

Emma feels odd, and not a little confused. „You are giving me clothes?“

Wendy laughs. „I am _lending_ you maternity clothes. If you want them.“

„Oh.“ Now Emma feels stupid and grateful in equal measure. „Thank you so much.“

Wendy shrugs. „You don't have to look through them now. Just take them home with you tomorrow and wear what you like. I might ask for them back one day, but not for a couple of years.“

Emma smiles and then Wendy turns serious. „He's insanely in love with you, you know,“ she says, slowly, solemnly. „One thing you can say about the Jones men is that they do not do things in half-measures.“ Emma nods, and Wendy goes on, her voice low and severe. „Do not break his heart.“

Emma sputters, but Wendy's gaze stays locked on hers. „If you do, you'll have me to contend with.“

Emma shakes her head and meets Wendy's burning eyes head-on. „I have no intention of hurting him,“ she answers, and she can hear her own voice, steady and certain and sure. „Killian is the best thing that ever happened to me.“

Wendy's eyes narrow and she keeps her stare locked on Emma for a long, long moment, before her features relax. „Good,“ she finally says. „I just wanted to make sure.“

And Emma feels like she passed the most important test she ever had to take.

Then Wendy smiles and the air in the room lightens again. She leads Emma back to the living room and plunks down on the couch. „I think it's about time you heard the story of how I met Liam.“ She smirks. „Because it is a good story, and because I knocked him out cold. And that's why I'll never get tired of telling it.“

 

  
Hours later the door opens with a bang and Killian and Liam nearly fall into the apartment. They each stumble a few steps before they come to a halt and Liam throws the door closed with another bang, nearly as loud as the first one.

Wendy gets up and raises an eyebrow. “So you're both drunk?”

Liam straightens bolt upright and pulls his shoulders back for good measure. His face is dead serious. “No,” he says. Very clearly.

Killian bursts out laughing and doubles over and then Liam cracks a grin and says, “yes”. And nearly falls forward as he relaxes his posture.

“Well, you're not wrong,” Wendy grins. “You're not drunk. You're wasted.” She turns to Emma. „I know two guys who are going to be hating life tomorrow.“

Liam takes two uncertain steps towards his wife and wraps her in a sloppy hug. “Wendy,“ he says, his voice just as sloppy as his movements, „I think it's time I took ava--- advage---“ he huffs in frustration and tries again, sounding out each syllable. „Ad-van-tage of you. Somewhere private.”

Wendy laughs out loud, winks at Emma and says, “that is our cue to leave.” And then expertly steers all six feet of lumbering husband towards their bedroom. The door falls shut behind them with definite finality.

 

Emma gets up, wraps one arm around Killian’s waist and pulls his arm across her shoulders, forcing him to straighten up.

“What do you say, sailor – want to go see what lying down feels like?”

Killian chuckles and pulls her into his side. „Only if you lie down with me.“

Emma grins. „That is the plan.“

 

When they get to their own bedroom, Killian simply collapses on the mattress. And then tries to help Emma take off his shoes and his jacket and only ends up making the process a lot more lengthy and a _lot_ more complicated. He gets so frustrated with the buttons on his shirt that in the end he just rips it open, buttons pinging across the floor; and Emma can't stop laughing; and then he pulls her down next to him.

„Emma,“ he says, and his tone of voice makes her laughter trail off into nothing. He cups her cheek and his eyes are so, so serious. „Emma----“ he starts again, his thumb brushing across her cheek.

 

Emma waits. Killian closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and starts again.

 

„I need to say this now, love, because I'm drunk enough to be brave.“ He opens his eyes and his hand wanders down to her belly. His thumb keeps rubbing, softly. „You know that I love you,“ he says, and then amends, „at least I hope you know.“

His speech is surprisingly clear. There is hardly any slurring at all.

Emma covers his hand with her own and nods. „I know,“ she says. „I really, really know that.“

He exhales. It smells of rum. „Good,“ he sighs. „That's good. It's important.“

He leans forward and brushes his lips across hers. „But there's more.“

 

Emma stays silent, her hand still on his while it rubs across her belly. She's not in a rush, and she lets him take all the time he needs. Whatever is coming, it's big enough he had to go get drunk to tell her. They are going to have to change that, because he should not be afraid to tell her anything. But this is not that moment. This moment belongs to him, as is.

 

„I think of him as mine,“ he finally whispers, splaying his fingers wide, so there is no doubt whom exactly he is talking about. „I think of you and him as mine.“ He shakes his head. „Not--- not in a bad way. I don't want to own you. I don't... don't want to control your life. I just--- you belong to me.“ He shakes his head again. „ _With_ me. You belong with me. God, maybe I am too drunk for this.“

 

Emma shudders. Hope starts to spread inside her, wonderful and warm and exquisitely painful.

 

Killian takes another deep breath. „I want to get a place, love,“ he finally says. „I want to get a--- somewhere down by the water, and I want you to live there with me. I want us to be--- I want us to be....“ He swallows hard and his voice drops to a whisper. „Family.“

Emma's breath stops. She can't make a sound. Couldn't if she tried.

„I want to stop pretending that this is tempo--- temporary.“ He stumbles over the word, but doesn't let it stop him. „I want us to have a life, you, me, and this little one.“ His hand again rubs across her belly. „I want to have lots of babies with you.“ He pulls back and his eyes are wide now, and worried, and his words come fast. „Not because I don't think of this one as mine, not at all, because I do, Emma, I do. You have to know I do. You _have_ to.“

He is babbling and she squeezes his hand. There's a lump in her throat and she still can't speak, but she smiles.

„It's just....“ He leans forward, presses his forehead to hers. „I want this to be--- be real. I want to live with you and have more babies with you and someday I want to marry the hell out of you.“

A sob and a laugh hit Emma at the exact same time, and the laugh wins.

„Marry the hell out of me?“

Killian's eyes grow very, very serious again, and his voice becomes incredibly earnest. „I didn't think 'marry the fuck out of you' was appropriate for the occasion.“

Emma bursts out another laugh, as tears start to roll down her cheeks.

„Fuck,“ Killian hiccups. „Now I made you cry.“

„Nononononono,“ she says, and wraps her arm around his waist, pulls him against the length of her body. „These are nothing but good tears.“ And then she kisses him. Puts everything she is, everything she feels, every answer she will ever give into this kiss.

When she pulls back, his eyes are wide and dark and burning into hers. „Alright love?“

There is only one thing she can possibly say.

Yes.

 

 

 

The next morning Killian opens his eyes to piercing sharp sunlight and he groans. His head feels like it should be coming off his shoulders. He'd be happy to let it.

Emma's eyes blink open slowly and there it is again – that soft, rumpled, sleepy expression she has when she isn't woken up by an alarm clock. The one he loves so, so much first thing in the morning.

Then his head starts to pound in earnest and he groans again. He has to close his eyes against the sunlight. He can feel Emma get out of bed, and wants to tell her not to, but he can't find a single working synapse.

Suddenly the room goes beautifully dark and the mattress dips down next to him. He risks opening one eye and there she is, holding a glass of water and a bottle of Aspirin. The curtains are closed.

„I'm thinking you need some of this?“ Her grin borders on wickedly gloating.

„Oh god, _thank you._ “ He grabs two pills and drains the water in one go. Then he looks at Emma. She is still grinning at him, but it no longer reaches her eyes. Her expression is more hesitant than anything.

 

And then the previous night slams back into his memory. With force.

 

„Emma,“ he says, ignoring his pounding head and taking her hand. Shakes his thoughts out of the prevarication they were already twisting towards, because if ever there was a time to be direct, _ever_ , it is right now. And it's time to cowboy the fuck up.

He looks her straight in the eye. „I meant everything I said last night. Every. Single. Word.“

She bites her lip. „Are you sure? Do you even remember what you said?“

He smiles. „Get a place by the water. Live with you. You and this little one.“ He puts his hand on her belly and takes a deep breath. Keeps his gaze locked on hers. „Have more babies with you. And someday, someday.... ask you a really, _really_ important question. And hope you say yes.“

 

The way the tension bleeds from Emma's body at those words is a beautiful sight.

And god, the smile she gives him. Wide and brilliant and so very lovely. Another smile he will remember for the rest of his life.

 

He squeezes her hand and then raises an eyebrow. „But what I want to do right now is go take a shower. With you. And make love to you until your legs no longer hold you.“

Emma bursts out laughing. „I don't know anyone who can lace sincerity with so much innuendo.“

„Innuendo? Love, I'm not implying anything. I'm pretty much saying everything straight up. Out loud.“

She shakes her head. „If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were _implying_ \--“ there is that wicked grin again-- „that I'm getting so big we have to do it standing up.“

He bursts out a laugh of his own, and for a moment the pounding in his head nearly explodes. He wills it down with several deep breaths. „Please don't make me laugh,“ he whines.

Her grin grows bigger. And possibly more wicked.

„What I was trying to say,“ he goes on, „is that I am horribly hungover and water cannot possibly hurt at this juncture.“ He lifts her chin. „And that I want you, right the fuck _now_.“ His other hand lazily rubs her belly. „And that will never change, no matter how big you get.“

Her eyes grow soft. „You're _impossible_.“

Her words seep into his heart like warm summer rain. His voice drops to a whisper. „And you love me for it.“

There is no mistaking the look she gives him. She is in this, with him.

 _With him_.

„Yes,“ she says, and leans forward to kiss him. „I really really do.“  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all you lovely, wonderful people who took this journey with me; all of you:  
> THANK YOU.


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